


The Way Things Are

by lenaballena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Valentine's Day Fluff, this is basically every rom-com cliche i could smush together enjoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3269363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenaballena/pseuds/lenaballena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If this were a movie, all of you would just get over yourselves, admit that you're in love with each other, and sort your shit out instead of whining at me about not understanding your feelings." </p><p>Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "If this were a movie, we'd all be white and financially stable."</p><p>(or: in which everyone is single on Valentine's Day, and that's just where the trouble starts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Days Until Valentines Day (Part One)

**Author's Note:**

> the chapters are going to switch from different amis' POVs, and take place in the two days leading up to Valentine's Day (and then on Valentine's Day, obviously). that's pretty much it.

Combeferre's life isn't perfect. It isn't sweet, or cute, and no one in their right mind would make it into a romantic comedy or feel-good movie. If anything, it'd be made into a light-hearted documentary with undertones of a deeper conflict and shown only at independent movie theaters by politically active film students. And really, that's fine with him. His life is great; he has a cause to fight for and friends who are more like family to him, and he doesn't need perfect.

That does mean, however, that when he wakes up in bed next to the boy of his dreams, he doesn't watch him sleep with a smile on his face as the morning sun creeps in through the window, casting a glowing light on his delicate eyelashes or something poetic and picturesque like that. He wakes up to a loud, shrill, alarm beeping and a face full of Courfeyrac's bedhead and almost chokes as a clump of it falls into his mouth.

It doesn't even smell nice, because Courfeyrac hasn't bathed in two days (they’ve all been a bit busy) and still somewhat smells like the fire they accidentally set off under the midtown bridge (don't ask). Still, it is Courfeyrac, and Combeferre will honestly take what he can get.

Courfeyrac, because Combeferre's life is very much not perfect, is not remotely interested in Combeferre. He's not upset about it, really. He's had these - _feelings_ \- for Courfeyrac for a long time now. They're not going away, and neither is Courfeyrac, and Combeferre's just learned to live with it; after a while it just became another fact of Combeferre's life. He's got astigmatism in his right eye, he’s allergic to pears, and he loves Courfeyrac. Sure, it'd be nice if Courfeyrac loved him back, but he's not greedy. He's just fine loving him quietly.

As he pushes Courfeyrac's mop of unruly curls away from his face, he smiles at his best friend fondly, watching as Courfeyrac sniffles a little and nuzzles himself into Combeferre's pillow. His eyes blink open and he stretches, smiling sleepily.

"Morning, sunshine." Combeferre says with a quiet smirk. “Did you forget you had an eight a.m.?”

Courfeyrac groans slightly, rubbing at his eyes. “That’s a blasphemous lie.”

“You’ve got an eight a.m. that _takes attendance_.” He says through a yawn, and Courfeyrac groans in resignation.

“Worst decision I've ever made.” Courfeyrac begins to stretch before noticing the cocoon of blankets he’s amassed in the night and chuckling as he begins to untangle himself. “Sorry, I..." He shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Totally stole all of your blankets.”

"I don't mind." Combeferre shrugs. "Although, could I ask a favor of you?"

Courfeyrac yawns, scrunching his nose a little, and it's actually very inconsiderate of him to look so adorable when he's just woken up. "Go for it."

"I'll make breakfast if you take a shower."

Courfeyrac makes a face of indignation, pressing his hand to his heart. "Are you trying to _imply_ something, 'ferre?"

"Just that you smell like firewood, weed, cheep whiskey and dust and you've got a piece of tree in your hair."

Rolling his eyes and sitting up with a groan, Courfeyrac shakes his head, shoving his fingers into the mass of curls and flicking dirt and who knows what else onto Combeferre's bed. "It adds to my charm." He says, grinning playfully and Combeferre feels the all too familiar pang in his heart. "Can I borrow some clothes?" He tugs at the collar of his two-dollar secondhand AC/DC shirt. "I think this stain might be blood from Tuesday."

Combeferre nods, grabbing his favorite hoodie (okay, technically it's Enjolras', but Combeferre's had it for years and Enjolras has never seemed to mind, so) from its perch on his bedpost and pulling it over his head. "Whatever you want, 's long as it's not work clothes."

Courfeyrac nods, yawning again and groaning as he gets to his feet with all the finesse of a ninety-four year old man. He trudges out of the room and into the hallway of Combeferre and Enjolras' apartment, and Combeferre slinks after him, making his way into the kitchen.

Contrary to popular belief, Combeferre is not a morning person. It’s not immediately obvious because, unlike Enjolras, he’s capable of rolling out of bed before nine without threatening anyone who speaks to him with bodily harm but he’s not like, say, Bahorel, who gets up at six every morning for yogalates. Frankly, mornings can die in a hole, but Combeferre has work to do so he’s awake. More or less. It’s not until he hears a voice from behind him that he realizes he’s been blinking tiredly at the stove for a solid two minutes.

“Hate to break it to you, chief, but even you can’t scare breakfast into making itself.” 

Sighing, he turns to look at Gavroche, who’s perched on the counter behind him with his trademark mischievous grin. Scowling, Combeferre squints at the kid through his glasses. “Sarcasm stunts your growth, you know.”

Gavroche shrugs, kicking lightly against the cabinets. “Good thing that wasn’t sarcasm.”

“Yeah, well.” Combeferre yawns, dragging his feet over to the fridge and prying it open. “Insolence makes your hair fall out. Have you eaten?”

“Nah, you guys are out of cereal again.”

“Write it on the shopping list, will you?” Gavroche hops off the counter to scribble on the notebook they keep on the island/bar that separates the living room and kitchen, and Combeferre eyes the fridge skeptically. Normally he’d make Gavroche pancakes, but they’re out of ingredients _and_ mix. “Will eggs do?”

“Sure.” Gavroche says easily, capping the pen. “Scrambled’s cool.”

Combeferre snorts offhandedly. “Like you have a choice.” They've gotten into something of a routine, since Gavroche spends two to three nights a week at Enjolras and Combeferre's. Eponine and Grantaire's apartment isn't the safest, especially when they're both working, and Enjolras' parents like to think they can guilt trip their son out of becoming a radical anarchist by paying for him to live in a spacious three-bedroom apartment. It's a great system; it gives his parents peace of mind and Combeferre and Enjolras donate the money they would be spending on rent to local charities and organizations. Plus, Gavroche can stay in the third bedroom when he needs to (they offered it to Courfeyrac initially, of course, but he understandably didn't want to leave Marius alone and frantically looking for a studio apartment or a new room-mate).

As Combeferre lights the stove, Gavroche hops back onto the counter beside him and asks, “Hey, ‘ferre, I gotta question.”

Combeferre slices in to the butter, sighing, “I told you, if you need a forged signature Feuilly is _much_ better-”

“Nah, that’s taken care of.” Gavroche says simply, the way he says most things, because he’s unlike any eleven year old Combeferre’s ever met. “We got this project in school, for Valentine’s Day, and we gotta talk to people in our family about what they think love is. But my parents don’t even notice I don’t live in their house anymore, so I wanted to know if you thought it was a good idea for me to say the Amis are my family and interview you guys instead.”

Combeferre bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling; there’s a reason they all adore Gavroche, and it’s not just because the kid is hilarious. He turns to look at him, using the back of his hand to push his glasses farther up on his nose. “I want you to answer me honestly.” Gavroche’s brow furrows in confusion, but he nods anyway. “Are you asking me because you actually want my opinion or because I’m the least likely to cry on you after you ask.”

Gavroche grins, shrugging, “Both?”

“Fair enough.” He says, cracking an egg into the glass on the counter. “And I think it’s a great idea. But if I were you, I’d wait until you have everyone together to tell them you listed them as family, so you get one mildly suffocating group hug instead of nine individual teary ones.”

“Good plan.”

As Gavroche grins at him from the counter, Courfeyrac walks out of the hallway and into the living room, announcing his arrival with, “Alright, home-made breakfast. How can I help?”

Combeferre looks at Gavroche, who’s shaking his head, eyes wide in obvious terror. 

“Oh come _on_ , I can make breakfast.” Courfeyrac says, voice growing nearer as Combeferre adds cheese to melt on Gavroche’s eggs, and tries not to think of every time Courfeyrac almost lost limbs by attempting to operate a stove, or accidentally gave them food poisoning . 

“Yeah, ‘ferre, I heard Courf once made a _whole_ bowl of cereal without starting a fire.” Gavroche chirps from beside him, and Combeferre snorts back a laugh.

“Watch it, kid.” Courfeyrac says without malice, and Combeferre finally turns to see him, one of Combeferre’s favorite sweaters hanging off his shoulder as he ruffles Gavroche’s hair. “Sarcasm’ll stunt your growth.”

“See?” Gavroche calls triumphantly, a smug grin puling at his lips as he turns to look at Combeferre. “Least Courf knows what sarcasm is.”

“That explains why he’s so hobbit-sized.”

Courfeyrac gasps indignantly. “You _wound_ me, Combeferre. But I’ll let you make it up to me by letting me help with breakfast.”

He pouts then, all wide brown-gold eyes and lip stuck out and his damn _freckles_ , and not even Gavroche furiously shaking his head behind him could make Combeferre capable of denying a pouting Courfeyrac. “I’ve got the eggs ready, if you want to cut an avocado up.” Courfeyrac punches the air triumphantly, turning to stick his tongue out at Gavroche, and Combeferre shakes his head fondly, adding, “But if you accidentally cut off a finger you’re never allowed in this kitchen again.”

He turns, expecting a snarky response from his best friend, and instead gets an armful of Courfeyrac, who shoves himself at Combeferre, wrapping his arms around his waist and saying into Combeferre’s chest, “Smell me. Come on, smell me. How do I smell?”

Combeferre, like the rational being he prides himself to be, tries to smell Courfeyrac’s hair in the least creepy way he can before responding dryly, “Like a summer meadow.”

Courfeyrac pulls away, nodding in satisfaction. “You’re goddamn right I do.”

He moves around to pull an avocado from their fruit bowl, and there’s a moment of silence before Gavroche shakes his head and sighs, “Adults are so weird.”

Next to him, Courfeyrac laughs. “You don't know the half of it, kid.”

Courfeyrac and Gavroche are situated on the island/bar/room divider on the edge of the kitchen, Courfeyrac happily eating half an avocado and some left over take-out from the night before, and Gavroche dumping more salt than is probably healthy onto his breakfast, when Gavroche brings up the assignment again. “So, ‘ferre.” He says seriously, and Combeferre resists the urge to tell him not to talk with his mouth full. “What do _you_ think love is?”

Courfeyrac, obviously confused by the question, glances between the two of them curiously as Combeferre frowns. “Don’t you want to wait until you can write down our answers?”

“Eh, my memory’s awesome.” Gavroche says, tapping the side of his head with his fork.

“Hmm, okay then.” Combeferre thinks, letting his eyes flick to Courfeyrac for a moment, decides he doesn’t want to go near what he feels for Courfeyrac with a ten foot pole, and thinks back to the last serious relationship he had. His name was Elliot, and they met in a biology lab; a lot of their relationship consisted of studying or working quietly alongside each other, happy to sit in silence together. He was the first boyfriend he’d had that didn’t make Combeferre feel like he didn’t have to change anything about himself to make the relationship work. “Love is quiet, and… easy. Safe, maybe.”

Courfeyrac makes a face, rolling his eyes as he scoffs, “Yeah, if you’re _eighty_.” Turning to Gavroche, he asks, “What’s this about?”

“School project.” Gavroche says simply. “Gotta ask people what they think love is. Valentine’s day thing.”

“Well.” Courfeyrac says, gesturing at Combeferre with his fork. “Ferre-bear, no offense, but love isn’t ‘quiet’. It’s loud, and messy, and completely awesome, and it takes a lot of work. Easy love is boring. Real love is wild and wonderful and awful, like a rollercoaster. Or a marvel movie.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes, he knows Courfeyrac is teasing him, would know it even without the gentle way Courfeyrac is smiling at him, but he also knows that he genuinely believes what he’s saying. It’s just another reason they’d be an incompatible couple (the list is getting pretty long at this point), and Combeferre tries not to let it bother him. Instead of responding to Courfeyrac, he turns back to Gavroche, a thought occurring to him. “You don’t have school on Valentine’s Day.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So this ‘project’ would be due tomorrow. And you’re just starting it now.”

Gavroche doesn’t falter, just shrugs his agreement, and Courfeyrac laughs, loud and open, before raising his hand for a high-five. Gavroche accepts it with a smile, and Courfeyrac says, “That’s the spirit. Procrastination is a life skill.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “Courf, we’re supposed to be good role models here.” He teases, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes with a smile.

“C’mon, ‘procrastinate as much as possible’ is _so_ not the most dangerous thing Gav will learn from us.”

And, well, he’s got a point. Just last week Jehan taught him to hotwire a car, and Combeferre’s pretty sure Bahorel and Grantaire have been taking him to their kick-boxing gym. “Then what is, exactly?”

“‘Question everything’.” Gavroche answers easily, sliding the last forkful of food into his mouth before sliding off his stool. “Gonna go get dressed now.”

They watch as he walks through the living room and down the hall to the guest room, and when he turns back to Courfeyrac his face is a mixture of pride, shock, and amusement. After a second, he grins, and chuckles softly. “Well, he’s definitely learning to be unnecessarily dramatic. I blame Enjolras.”

Combeferre laughs softly, and the two of them fall into comfortable silence, Courfeyrac eating and Combeferre pulling out his phone to check the news and weather. As he scrolls, a message pops up from Joly, and he smiles fondly when he reads it.

_[from: Joly] Knock knock_

He’s about to send back a ‘who’s there’ when there’s an actual knock at their front door, and then the sound of a key turning (they all have keys to one another's apartments, it just makes things easier) and Combeferre grins when he sees Joly pushing open the door with a bright smile. “Who’s there?” 

“Dang, I didn’t actually have a joke to follow that.” Joly groans as he walks into the living room, Grantaire entering behind him and closing the door.  “Great. I feel like a failure already, and it’s not even seven-thirty.”

“Welcome to my life.” Grantaire says with a smile, then rolls his eyes when Joly turns around, no doubt with a hundred different positive affirmations running through his mind. “I’m joking, christ, calm down, you can’t just give me an opening like that and expect me _not_ to take advantage of it.”

Joly sighs, and Combeferre takes a moment to look at the two of his friends. They're both stunningly awake and put-together for seven a.m.; Joly’s dressed in one of his trademark outfits (a shirt with either breakfast food, dinosaurs, or constellations and a pair of brightly colored pants), and Grantaire’s dressed in what he calls ‘vagabond lumberjack chic’, and he can’t understand why either of them is standing in his living room this early in the morning. 

Courfeyrac voices his confusion for him with a chipper, “Friends! Countrymen! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Eponine was fucking exhausted after her double shift yesterday, so I turned off her alarm, left her a note to tell her I was taking Gav to school, and called Joly to borrow his car.” Grantaire explains with a shrug, and Joly nods with a smile.

“And I don’t have class until noon and like inviting myself to things.” He says, grinning widely, then blinks excitedly. “Oh, and I almost forgot! Do you guys want to come to a rom-com marathon at the campus theatre on V-Day with me and Bossuet? Well, Courf, do you want to come, ‘ferre, you have less of a choice. We will drag you there if it comes to it.” Joly looks to Courfeyrac for confirmation, and Courfeyrac bites his lip reluctantly.

“We… actually already have plans.” Courfeyrac says, glancing at Combeferre, who tries to school his face into something vaguely apologetic as he looks back at Joly. “We’re spending Valentine’s Day together this year.”

“Oh.” Joly says, and his face lights up instantly, like all of his dreams have just come true. “Like… a date?”

“No, no.” Courfeyrac waves him away, explaining simply, “A friendship outing.”

Grantaire raises a single eyebrow. “A _friendship outing_.”

A friendship outing. Unsurprisingly not Combeferre’s idea, because he does have _some_ sense of self-preservation, but he has trouble denying Courfeyrac on a good day, nonetheless when he’s suggesting they spend Valentine’s Day doing all the things they love together. Not to mention he suggested it when they were falling asleep in Combeferre's bed the night before. Combeferre was weak.

Courfeyrac nods eagerly next to him. “Yeah, since we’re both single for the first Valentine’s Day that we’ve known each other, and I thought, why spend a day whining about being alone when I can spend it celebrating my best friendship? Enjolras has some project - thingie - that he has to do, or we'd invite him too, and we’re just gonna go to museums and bookstores and stuff.” Well, that's half true. Enjolras _will_ have a project to do, or Combeferre will tell Grantaire _exactly_ what happened to his favorite green hoodie that he hasn't seen in years. 

“Oh, cool.” Grantaire says.

Joly looks at Combeferre, eyes silently asking what the _hell_ he’s gotten himself into. Joly knows, of course, because Joly is ridiculously perceptive and one of his closest friends, and the person Combeferre comes to when he needs to sulk about Courfeyrac’s latest infatuation. Combeferre shrugs, and Joly’s eyes shift into something that clearly says ‘we’re talking about this later’. “Yeah, that sounds awesome.” He says after a beat, then shrugs. “Well, it’ll just be me and Boss then. I can think of worse things.”

Combeferre lets himself grin at that; Joly is almost as gone for Bossuet as he is for Courfeyrac. Sometimes they sit and watch How It's Made and feel sorry for themselves together. It's very therapeutic.

“Grantaire, you’re not going with?” Courfeyrac frowns. “What, Love Actually isn’t good enough for you anymore?”

Chuckling, Grantaire shakes his head, kicking at the floor softly. “Nah, I- I’ve got a date, actually.”

_That_ takes Combeferre by surprise. Grantaire’s had a strict no-dating policy for almost two years, since he stopped drinking and started trying to sort out all the things he doesn’t like to talk about, saying that relationships just added that much more unnecessary complication and stress. “Wow, really?” He says, voice tilting in surprise.

“Yeah, just some guy I met on one of my shifts. Plays the guitar, english major, not an impassioned revolutionary bone in his body.” Grantaire shrugs, his lips pulling up in his usual grin, before he pauses, head tilting slightly. “Speaking of, where is Enjolras?”

“The use.” Courfeyrac laughs softly. “Got caught up in the campaign for a better tomorrow and forgot about an assignment. He’s been at the library since six.”

“ _Yikes_.” Grantaire says, clicking his tongue against his teeth. He stares wistfully down the hall toward Enjolras' bedroom anyway, and Combeferre 's got to give him credit. Enjolras likes to pretend he's not still hopelessly in love with Grantaire, but Grantaire doesn't seem to care enough to try to hide it. Miraculously, Enjolras is the one person on the planet who doesn't seem to notice, and therein lies the beauty of their relationship.

“Demonstrating again that procrastination is _not_ a life skill.” Combeferre says, sending Courfeyrac a significant glance, and Courfeyrac, true to form, just rolls his eyes back at him.

“Is too.” Gavroche calls, striding into the living room with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He stops as he sees Grantaire and Joly, the latter of whom waves happily at him from across the room. “Oh, hey guys. Is Ep sleeping in again today? ”

Grantaire nods. "Not knowingly, but whatever."

"Good. She needs it." Gavroche says as he steps into the maroon and black combat boots Bahorel gave him for their 'Nondenominational Holiday Party'.

Combeferre glances behind his shoulder to the oven clock. "Hey, you're gonna be late to school if you don't hurry."

"Oh _darn_." Gavroche says, rolling his eyes, and Grantaire chuckles.

"C'mon, smart-ass, you've gotta get an education so you can become president and make waking up before nine illegal." He says, gesturing towards the door, and Gavroche sighs but walks out of the apartment, waving goodbye to Courfeyrac and Combeferre as he goes. "Later, you two."

Joly waves as well, smiling brightly. Combeferre gives him and Grantaire a mock-salute as the two of them follow Gavroche out the door, it closing behind them with a click and leaving Courfeyrac and Combeferre in silence.

After a beat, Courfeyrac lets out a low whistle. "Grantaire has a date."

Combeferre nods. "Apparently." 

"Enjolras is going to _lose his shit_."

Combeferre can't help but agree; Enjolras doesn't handle jealousy well, and they have the lifetime ban from the cafe on fourth street to prove it.

As Courfeyrac moves to put his plate in the sink, Combeferre's phone pings with a new message.

_ [from: Joly] R u on crack _

He shakes his head in fond exasperation, and slides the message to respond.

_ [to: Joly] Aren't you driving? _

_[from: Joly] Rs got it. And I repeat r u on crack_

Combeferre sighs, smiling at the phone in spite of himself.  

_[to: Joly] Not that I'm aware of._

The next messages come in rapidly, because Joly is the kind of person who texts his thought processes.

_[from: Joly] Then are you out of ur corn fed mind_

_[from: Joly] A friendship outing ferre why_

_[from: Joly] Why would u do that to urself_

_[from: Joly] Are u gonna try to seduce him because that's what Bahorel's doing_

_[from: Joly] Shit thats supposed to be a secret I'm so sorry please don't tell him I told u oh god_

The messages keep coming in, no doubt full of Joly alternatively swearing him to secrecy and asking about the friendship outing, but Combeferre is distracted by Courfeyrac passing by him and saying, "I'm gonna get my stuff, thanks for letting me crash and eat your food," before pressing a kiss to the side of Combeferre's head. "I'm so excited about the friendship outing, It'll be exactly what we need to keep our minds off the commercialized romance society tries to force feed us every year."

He beams at Combeferre then, warm and happy and Combeferre's breath catches in his throat. It occurs to him then how much Courfeyrac is genuinely looking forward to spending a day with Combeferre, just celebrating their friendship. Courfeyrac may not be  _in love_ with Combeferre, but he does love him unconditionally, and that's enough.

It has to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack to this chapter: somebody loves you by betty who


	2. Two Days Until Valentines Day (Part Two)

_But the lawyer has one advantage that others often lack: he is one who makes the language system he uses. If he does not like what he sees his language system to be doing, he can argue for its change; if he is a judge or legislator, he may be able to decree its change. The lawyer can help fashion the language that limits him, he is its artificer. This relationship is denied the ironic artist, who always says of the language he uses that it is in some way no good. It is difficult to see how the roles of maker and mocker can easily be united with respect to the same language. And the powers and satisfactions of a lawyer has one advantage that others often lack: he is one who makes the language system he uses. If he does not like what he sees his language system to be doing, he can argue for its change; if he is a judge or legislator, he may be able to decree its change. The lawyer has one advantage that others often lack: he is one who makes the language system he uses. If he does not like what he sees his language system to be doing, he can argue for-_

Oh _god._

Enjolras closes his eyes and practices the breathing exercise Bahorel taught him the first time they were almost arrested together, willing himself to focus. He's got three more pages to write, an hour and a half in which to do so, and he's been trying to read the same paragraph for five minutes. Not to mention there's a faint, strangely Courfeyrac-sounding voice in his head telling him to just light the damn book on fire and be done with it.

Steeling himself, he looks back down, glaring determinedly at the bundle of paper and ink that is quickly becoming the bane of his existence, and is about to start the paragraph again in the vain hope that  _this time_ he'll understand what the hell he's meant to be writing about, when a granola bar flops down across the spine of his book with a sudden thump.

"Did you _purposely_ choose the area of the library hardest to get to?" Bossuet says with a grin, sliding out the chair next to Enjolras and sitting down with a smile. "Or is today just my lucky day?"

"I needed a secluded place to work- what are you doing here?" Enjolras asks, watching as Bossuet pulls a poptart package out of a paper bag and places an apple next to it.

Sliding the food across the table to him, Bossuet shrugs. "Joly texted me, said Combeferre told him you'd been at the library all morning. We figured you forgot to eat, so I grabbed some snacks on my way out." He gestures to the food with a grin. "Something healthy, something sugary, and fruit. Almost like a real person meal, just. Cheaper."

Enjolras blinks, smiling fondly at Bossuet. It's been years, but Enjolras still has trouble believing how amazing his friends are. "You didn't have to do that."

"Eh, did it anyway. No take backs." Bossuet shrugs, his easy grin pulling at his lips as he gestures towards Enjolras' text book. "Can I help?"

"Not unless you know how to harness my 'legal imagination'." Enjolras groans. It's time for a break, he decides, and takes no little pleasure in slamming his book shut. "I'm done. Well, for right now. I'm going to sit and eat- thank you again, by the way- and forget how much I despise this fucking book."

Bossuet nods, lips pursing in thought. "We could light it on fire?"

"Don't tempt me." Enjolras unwraps the granola bar and bites off a chunk. "And I'm pretty sure you're not allowed near open flames anymore."

"That was  _one time_." Bossuet huffs.

"You lit my tent on fire!"

"Only a little." Bossuet says defensively. "And I still maintain that it was Bahorel's fault for leaving me and Courfeyrac unsupervised _and_ in charge of the s'mores."

 Enjolras takes another bite of his granola bar, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay, I'll admit, that was a poor judgement call."

Bossuet nods in satisfaction, before considering. "Oh, you know what, speaking of, what's up with his and 'ferre's 'friendship outing'?" He asks, leaning across the table to whisper conspiratorially, "That's gotta be code for something."

Frowning, Enjolras tries to think of any time in his life he's heard the term 'friendship outing', and comes up blank. "What the _hell_ is a friendship outing?" 

Bossuet shrugs. "Fuck if I know."

"And Bahorel and  _Combeferre_ are going on this... outing." Well, truthfully, he'd expect as much from Bahorel, but.

"No, no, Combeferre and Courfeyrac." Bossuet corrects, before frowning. "Wait, you really didn't know about this?"

Enjolras shrugs. "First I've heard of it." It does sound very Courfeyrac, though, and he wonders why he wasn't invited. "Do we have any idea when this 'friendship outing'- that's the worst phrase I've ever heard in my life - is taking place?" 

"Valentine's Day." Bossuet says humorlessly, and  _ah._ That would explain it.

Bossuet's phone vibrates twice in quick succession, and he glances down at it, before making a displeased noise. "Ah, shoot. I've got class in ten; Joly just texted me to remind me since he knows how often I'm late. Isn't that cute of him?" He says offhandedly, a bright, besotted smile on his face, and thankfully doesn't seem to actually want an answer, because Enjolras has honestly no idea to respond to that. He's still not _entirely_ sure whether Joly and Bossuet are dating or not, and it seems to amuse them to never give him a definite answer. "I was gonna grab some coffee from the capitalist machine downstairs before class, want some?"

"God yes."

Bossuet grins. "Be back in a second."

As Bossuet skips off, literally skips, because he is Bossuet and it's common knowledge that Bossuet and Joly are not real human beings but strange unnatural creatures of pure unadulterated happiness, Enjolras sinks back into his chair and bites into his apple frustratedly. The textbook is just sitting there. Mocking him.

Reluctantly, he reaches out to open it again, praying that this time it'll make even the tiniest bit of sense, when he's stopped by Bossuet's phone buzzing against the tabletop. "Oh, Bossuet, you forgot-" He starts, before realizing Bossuet must be on the lower level already, at least. 

And.

Well.

He doesn't  _mean_ to look at the message, he really doesn't- it's more of a reflex than anything, built up from years of Combeferre asking him to check an incoming message because he has his hands full, or Courfeyrac asking the same of him out of pure laziness. He leans over before he realizes what he's doing, eyes skimming over the screen.

 _[from: aRRR] shit I thought Joly told you, I've got my date with Louis on Saturday but tell Emma I said hi_   :)))))))

Enjolras chokes on his apple. 

\---

_[from: Bo$$] It's very possible Enjolras saw a text from R about his date with loose_

_[from: Bo$$] so you know_

_[from: Bo$$] let me. how if that was supposed to be a scene_

_[from: Bo$$] *louis_

_[from: Bo$$] *know_

_[from: Bo$$] *SECRET_

Joly pauses, a french fry halfway to his mouth, and considers Bossuet's texts. It's... _possible_ Grantaire might have wanted to tell Enjolras himself. He tries not to roll his eyes at the thought; he's not entirely sure why Grantaire even  _agreed_ to the date with Louis, since he's so obviously still waiting for Enjolras.

Joly hopes Enjolras knows how lucky he is.

Suddenly, a lightbulb goes off in his head- what better way to figure out if Enjolras is still interested in Grantaire than to introduce competition? Last time Grantaire dated anyone (Angelica, the blond environmental society president, Joly thinks with a grimace), Enjolras wasn't exactly  _subtle_ about his jealousy, and they've got that giant one-armed stuffed teddy bear in their living room to prove it. If Enjolras still had feelings for Grantaire, well, maybe this time it wouldn't-

"Earth to Joly." Eponine says, waving half of her sandwich in front of him. "Come back to us, Joly."

He blinks rapidly, looking at Eponine and Courfeyrac's expectant faces, and flushes. "Sorry, I have a lot of thoughts. What were we talking about?"

"The upcoming professional baseball season." Courfeyrac says simply, talking a deep drink from his soda.

"Ew, why?" Joly makes a face, even if he knows they're joking. He's pretty sure Courfeyrac couldn't tell you when the professional baseball season started if his life depended on it. 

Courfeyrac chuckles at that, before shaking his head. "We were comparing drunken Pontmercy descriptions."

"We agreed 'spritely and elusive mistress of my heart' was the best yet." Eponine adds, with a mild grimace. "'Delicate golden flower petal blown past by the winds of fate' came in a close second, but we're pretty sure he was sober for that one." She groans, shaking her head slowly before reaching across the table to steal some of Joly's fries. "I swear to god, if he doesn't find that girl soon I'll organize the manhunt myself."

Ah. Right. Marius' elusive love of his life, who he likes to wax poetic about any time there's a gap in the conversation, but  _especially_  when he's got a few drinks under his belt. Joly feels himself start to smile fondly. "I think it's sweet."

Eponine snorts in her judgmental way, and they both look at Courfeyrac. Brushing a loose curl out of his face, he shrugs. "I always knew something like this would happen eventually." He looks for the agreement in their faces and apparently doesn't find it because he continues, "I mean, think about it. Marius Pontmercy is every romantic comedy protagonist you've ever seen, just kinda blended together so all the basic elements are still there, but it just turns out kind of weird and lumpy and of a sort of suspicious color, and everything kind of smells- not _bad_ , but fruity, almost  _too_ fruity, and... where was I going with this."

"Marius the rom-com protagonist." Eponine provides helpfully, dipping a stolen fry in her milkshake.

"Right, yeah," Courfeyrac nods, bringing a tomato slice to his mouth and chewing slowly. "I mean, have you ever spent time with Marius without quirky, vaguely upbeat indie music playing in the background? Or something simultaneously zany and kinda depressing being slipped into the conversation? His entire life's a romantic comedy, and now he has his leading lady, who he sees once and then spends days looking for her only to have her turn out to have been right under his nose the entire time, just in time for the end of the movie."

Joly considers that for a moment; it's honestly kind of scarily true.

"He's got a point." He says finally, taking a bite of his grilled cheese. "Though 'the end of the movie' sounds kinda ominous."

 Eponine seems to smile in spite of herself. "Yeah, he's definitely the rom-com type." She pauses for a beat, before continuing, "Oh, Valentine's Day is gonna be _rough_." She looks to Courfeyrac with a grimace. "Tell me you've got something planned to distract him with.'

Courfeyrac obviously falters, and Joly perks up instantly. _Finally_ , they can talk about Courfeyrac's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Idea. He turns to Eponine, saying slowly, "Oh, didn't Courfeyrac tell you about his Valentine's Day plans?"

Eponine's eyes widen instantly. "Oh god." 

"Wow, judgmental much?" Courfeyrac scoffs, indignant. With the air of a someone tragically long-suffering and misunderstood, Courfeyrac explains, "Combeferre and I are spending the day together."

"Like... a date?"

Joly reaches over and places his hand over Eponine's, smiling sadly. "Ah, my sweet summer child, how young you are, how new to the ways of the world." She grins at him the way only Eponine can, equal parts amused and challenging, and he continues, "Not a date. A _friendship outing_."

Her eyes flick to Courfeyrac. "Tell me you're joking."

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "It's not a big deal, oh my god. We're just going to go see a couple of our favorite museum exhibits, maybe have a bit of a snapchat bookstore scavenger hunt, eat at the Musain-"

"That's a date. That's literally just a very long, nerdy, date. ' _Friendship Outing_ '," Eponine scoffs, incredulous, then rolls her eyes. "You're so pretentious. Shut up, it's a fucking date."

Eponine is Joly's favorite human being.

Courfeyrac is less amused. "Very funny."

"Yours was better."

"It's not a joke!" Courferyac cries, exasperated. "What's wrong with two friends spending the day enjoying each other?" Joly and Eponine give him identical judgmental looks. "Okay, that came out wrong. But it's  _not_ a date."

"Why not?" Joly asks quietly, and Courfeyrac turns to look at him like he's just suggested he shave off all his hair.

"What do you mean?"

Joly shrugs, hoping his face doesn't show how excited he is about where this conversation's heading. "I mean, why can't it be a date?"

"Because-" Courfeyrac stammers, flailing his hands uselessly, "Because it's Combeferre, and-"

Eponine frowns. "What's wrong with Combeferre?"

"Nothing's wrong with Combeferre, just-"

"He's a very attractive man." Joly says simply. He's going to have a mug printed for himself with 'WORLD'S BEST WINGMAN' on it and make Combeferre pay for it.

Eponine nods. "His tattoos are really sexy." Eponine can have a matching mug.

"I'm aware, but-"

"You obviously care about him, you guys have good chemistry."

Courfeyrac looks between the two of them quickly. "Where is this  _coming from_ -"

"Hey, the date was your idea-"

"It's a  _friendship outing!"_

"On Valentine's Day. You can't tell me you haven't thought about-"

"It'd mess up the friendship." Courfeyrac interrupts finally, his tone clipped. "Okay? It can't be a date because a date could ruin our friendship. Leave it alone."

 _And there we go_. Not because he's not attracted to Combeferre, or because he's never thought of him as anything but a friend, but because it could endanger their friendship. Joly smiles to himself;  _god,_ he's good. Maybe he'll get himself a t-shirt as well. Or at least a sticker set. 

"Alright, alright." Eponine raises her hands in surrender. "But you could definitely do worse than 'ferre if you're looking for a date. I mean, he definitely seems like the 'bookworm in the streets, freak in the sheets' type, if you know what I mean."

Courfeyrac's cheeks flush almost instantly, a faint pink coloring his tan skin. " _Eponine_." _  
_

"What? He does."

Courfeyrac presses his palms to cover his eyes and groans, "I really cannot handle speculating about Combeferre's hypothetical sex life right now, oh my _god_."

"Who's speculating?" Eponine says, as if they're discussing the weather. "Just ask Joly."

Oh no.

Courfeyrac tenses in front of him.

Oh nonono. Don't ask Joly, why would you ask Joly, leave Joly out of this why are you doing this Joly has done  _nothing wrong-_

"Wait, what?" Courfeyrac uncovers his eyes, head whipping up to look at Joly. "You and Combeferre-"

Oh god. Hasn't Combeferre  _told him_? "I- we- did he not- I mean- not  _often_ -" Joly looks to Eponine helplessly, and she tries and fails not to look amused. He's taking away her mug. "We just, we- oh no-"

Courfeyrac stares at him for a second, and Joly seriously considers running away, before Courfeyrac gives him a fond, teasing smile. "Gotcha."

"You-  _oh my god_ ," Joly exhales sharply, smiling in relief. "I thought-"

"Of course he told me, silly. We tell each other everything." Courfeyrac chuckles, before his eyes narrow and his nose scrunches in distate. "But seriously, can we drop this? As much as I love Combeferre, and you, I'd really rather not-"

"Consider it dropped." Joly agrees quickly, eager to never revisit this conversation again. "So, wanna know what Bahorel's got planned?"

\---

Bahorel, Eponine decides, is ridiculous. In fact, all of her friends are ridiculous. Lovable and wonderful in their own ways, but so fucking ridiculous. Sure, the whole romance thing isn't exactly her area of expertise, but she knows enough to realize that all of them would be  _much_ better off if they pulled their heads out of their asses and just admitted to being in love with each other and stopped trying so hard to pretend otherwise.

After lunch with Joly and Courfeyrac, she still has almost twenty minutes until she needs to catch the bus to pick Gavroche up from school, and an impending night shift to look forward to, so she can justify ducking into a cafe down the street and shelling out three bucks for a cup of coffee (a dollar of which she pays in nickels and pennies from her change purse, just to see the way the fedora wearing cashier glares at her).

"It's Eponine," She responds when asked for her name, and the cashier, most likely out of spite, writes 'Sepognineh', on her cup. Snorting back a laugh, she pulls out her phone and barely has time to take a snapchat before some asshole walks into her and knocks the cup out of her hands. 

It happens almost in slow motion, the way the hot liquid and fluffy whipped cream splash out of the cup and over the floor and her shoes. She stares at the puddle in front of her, feels warm liquid seeping gently into her socks. "You've gotta be _fucking_ kidding me."

"Shit, oh my god, I am so sorry, I can't believe-" Eponine looks up and the first thing she notices are hazel-green eyes, then the rest of the man comes into view, looking horrified. "I can't believe I just did that."

Eponine wonders offhandedly if it's rude to threaten to set random strangers on fire. She'll have to ask Courfeyrac about it sometime. "You- _it's fine_." She grits out, through clenched teeth. Deep breaths, Eponine. Count to ten.

The asshole blinks at her. "It's really not, I- let me buy you another one?"

 _Let you?_ Eponine thinks absently.  _You're lucky I don't make you_. What she says, however, is, "Oh, you don't have to-"

"I insist." 

"Alright, fine." Eponine shrugs, and calls out her order to the bitter fashion-victim behind the counter. She waits for the asshole to place his order and pay for both of them, then watches as he pulls napkins from the dispenser and tries to mop at the floor. 

"I'm really sorry about this, I hope you didn't have anywhere to be." He calls, swiping wide circles on the floor. Eponine thinks he's probably making things worse, but doesn't say so. She's got coffee cooling on her feet. He can put in a bit of extra manual labor.

She shrugs. "I've got a few minutes."

"Oh, that's good." He looks up, a sort of crooked smile pulling at his lips. "I'm Connor, by the way."

"Eponine." She says, smiling tightly.

He stands up, throwing the wet napkins away and pulling out more dry ones, pulling the edge of his hoodie up where it dangles off the edge of a broad shoulder. "Oh, you're french?"

"No..." She blinks at him. "What makes you say that?"

Connor opens and closes his mouth, before blushing slightly. "No reason, I guess." Disappointing, Eponine thinks; fucking with people is a lot more fun when they realize they're being messed with. The cashier/barista human sets their cups down side by side, and before Eponine can move Connor is practically diving over the counter and snatching up their marker to scribble on the side of her cup. When he finishes, he hands the drink to her, a charming smile highlighting his face. "It's my number. You know, in case you ever wanted to get some coffee. Without me spilling it all over you, obviously."

There won't be a next time, Eponine doesn't say, just smiles, thanks him, and refrains from rolling her eyes until she's well out of his line of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack to this chapter: please don't say you love me by gabrielle aplin
> 
> i've already failed at posting every day, and it's only the second day [sighs] well at least i'm only a few hours late?? heh?
> 
> anyway the excerpt at the beginning of the chapter is from The Legal Imagination by James Boyd White, an actual text that I have to read [reluctant noises]


	3. Two Days Until Valentines Day (Part Three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i'm sorry i know i said i'd be posting a chapter a day but turns out the universe has a grudge against me and that became impossible the last few days due to me being ill and swamped with work and whatnot  
> i still have fourteen chapters planned out, and the fic won't change but i might have to keep it going past valentine's day??  
> i dunno i'll keep everyone posted and i guess yell at me on tumblr if i start getting behind again yeah (my url's dameferre if you weren't aware)  
> anyway chapter three! woo! (finally)

Bahorel sighs, letting his feet dangle over the edge of the concrete wall overlooking the lower-level courtyard, watching as the people below scurry from class to class. There's a kind of melancholy feeling in the air that has him pulling his knitted cardigan closer around his chest, curling it into himself like a security blanket. He's not sure  _what_ , exactly, has him feeling so quietly sad and uncomfortable, whether it's the overcast, sunless sky, the brisk February air, or the depressing death music being played on the pan flute next to him.

Actually, scratch that. It's  _definitely_ the depressing death music.

" _Jehan_." Bahorel groans. "You're killing me here."

"Hey, fuck off, I'm getting the hang of it." Jehan says in their usual low, languid, way, punctuating their words with a few indignant notes. As indignant as anything played on a tiny pan flute can sound, anyway.

Next to them, Bahorel groans. "Not what I meant, just- do you know any  _non_ funereal songs on the pan flute?"

"Not really."

"Then do me a solid and don't play death songs while I reflect on my already depressing love life, yeah?"

Jehan hums thoughtfully. "I didn't know you had a love life, Bahorel."

Coming from Courfeyrac or Grantaire, that would have been teasingly insulting, and Bahorel would fake-push them off the ledge to get them back for it (well, okay, he'd fake push Grantaire, but Courfeyrac is afraid of heights, and that'd just be mean. He'd mess up his hair instead). From Jehan, however, it's genuinely curious, simply stated fact. "Well, I don't, really. Kinda hoping V-Day might change that."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I've been-" He pauses, biting his lip, unsure how much he should say. "I've been planning. Stuff. With a bit of outside help."

"For whom?"

Bahorel falters; he's admitted his crush  _way_ too many times this week, and it's not that he doesn't trust, Jehan, but-

Jehan cuts off his thoughts, saying with a roll of their eyes, "Oh come on. Who would I _possibly_ tell?"

"Dude, no, it's not that, it's just- they're a friend of ours, so."

" _Ah_." Jehan nods, and Bahorel thinks for a moment that they'll let the subject drop and breathes a sigh of relief. He's gotta have some mystery in his life, after all. "So, what do you have planned for Feuilly?" Well, so much for that.

Hardly one to go down without a fight, Bahorel wills his face to look disinterested as he slowly turns to Jehan and raises an eyebrow. "Who said it's Feuilly?"

Jehan blinks, slowly. "Who else could it  _possibly_ be?"

"We have a lot of-" Bahorel pauses, thinking. "Okay, fine, whatever, fuck it, Joly's probably told half the country by now. Of course it's Feuilly. Everyone's in love with Feuilly. Strangers propose to him on the street."

"That was once, and they were drunk." Jehan rolls their eyes, before pausing halfway through kicking their feet out playfully, one maroon suede shoe suspended in the air as they say slowly, "Wait, Joly- as in... Joly's helping you with this."

Bahorel sighs. "Yeah, I- somehow convinced myself that matching him shot for shot was a good idea, and apparently somewhere between telling Bossuet that I had a liver of steel and challenging Grantaire's cat to a duel, I found time to talk about Feuilly's fucking freckles for fifteen friggin' minutes."

"Were you trying for alliteration there?"

"Yeah, but I lost it on minutes."

"A valiant attempt." Jehan says, giving him a thumbs up, before scrunching their nose thoughtfully. "Anyway. Joly. And by extension Bossuet. Are you sure about this?"

Bahorel shrugs, bringing his hands up to adjust the (hopefully artfully messy in a kind of devil-may-care way) bun on top of his head. "I gotta tell him, you know? I just- I have this little nagging sliver of hope, and if it's gonna get punched in the face, I'd rather just get it over with. This way I'll only end up with a grudge against Valentine's Day for the rest of my life."

Jehan shakes their head, long dreadlocks shifting around their shoulders. "Not that. Of course you should tell Feuilly, love should be shared, whether it's requited or not. But. Joly and Bossuet. You're going to go to Joly and Bossuet for love advice, here."

 "What's wrong with Joly and Bossuet?"

Taking a deep breath, Jehan's eyes flutter closed as they seem to consider the question. "Does their plan involve either a flash mob, a treasure hunt, or a puzzle with a secret message on it? Because if so, Feuilly doesn't have the time for the last two, and won't fully appreciate the first."

And, okay, he had thought the same thing when Joly and Bossuet suggested the treasure hunt, but he had a good feeling about the flash mob. "Hey, what's wrong with- well, less of a flash mob, but a few of us getting together, a good beat and some killer dance moves, get some classic outfits going-"

"You'd be dancing to Uptown Funk, wouldn't you." Jehan knows him too well. Or they can read minds. Either way, Bahorel's surprise must give Jehan the answer they're looking for because they sigh before continuing,"I'm not saying he wouldn't appreciate the gesture, or that he'd be uncomfortable with it, just- he wouldn't appreciate it  _as much_ as, say, Courfeyrac. If  _I_ were you, I'd do something simple, because Feuilly likes the simple things. Just something personal, and something you know would mean something to him, you know?"

Bahorel sighs reluctantly. Damn Jehan. "How the _hell_ are you so good at these things?"

"It's a gift." Jehan says, tipping the brim of their black floppy hat. Behind them, the gentle, upbeat strumming of a ukelele fills the air, followed by airy, light singing, and Jehan spares a second to glance at the wannabe indie sensation before continuing, "You don't even need to do  _anything_ , you know. Just tell him what he means to you, and why. Boom. That simple."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Bahorel says, disregarding that little piece of advice. As much as he'd like to just go up to Feuilly and stammer out a flustered, 'you're the best person I know. Please date', he think it might be helpful to plan things _just_ a little. He looks back out over the courtyard just in time to see a familiar fluffy head of hair attached to a body swallowed by a familiar unnecessarily large black coat. "Oh, hey, Jehan. A wild Pontmercy." Jehan leans forward, following his gaze, as Bahorel cups his hands to his mouth and bellows, "PONT-MER-CY!" 

About thirty people stop to look at him, but Marius is not one of them. He sighs. "Should I try again?"

"Probably not, since I just texted him." Bahorel turns to look at Jehan, who raises their eyebrows. "What? It seemed efficient."

Down below, Marius pulls out his phone, looks at it for a second, and begins turning around, obviously looking for something. He almost completes three circles without seeing them.

"Ah, bless." Bahorel sighs. "He's like a fluffy, tiny, happy puppy. I'm so glad we decided to keep him."

"Well, once we named him we didn't really have a choice." Jehan says casually, lifting their hand in the air to wave at Marius, whose face lights up when he finally spots them and he immediately begins shuffling through the crowd of people and up the steps to their level. "He does round out the group rather well, doesn't he." Jehan adds, with a soft smile.

"Hey, guys." Marius says when he reaches them, and the singer behind them launches into a crooning, ukelele based rendition of 'I Wanna Dance With Somebody'. He sits down on the ledge next to Jehan with a grin. "How's it going?"

"Every second is another closer to death." Jehan says calmly, with a serene smile. "And I found a shop on campus that sells those sugary green apple rings I like."

"Oh, awesome." Marius tilts back to look past Jehan at Bahorel. "And you?"

Bahorel shrugs. "Same as ever. Refrained from punching the fedora off an MRA today, which I consider personal growth." Jehan nods appreciatively next to him, and Bahorel looks back at Marius. "What about you, Pontmercy?"

Marius lets out a world-weary sigh. "Oh, you know." He shrugs, shrugging his coat tighter over his shoulders. "Followed a girl for almost ten minutes this morning. Wasn't her. Didn't find any sugary apple rings, either."

" _Marius_ ," Jehan says, tapping into their inner disappointed-grandmother voice. "You are _legitimately_ going to get arrested one of these days."

 _Wouldn't be the first time_ , Bahorel thinks absently, _for any of us._  Marius sighs, even deeper and more worn-out than before. "I know, and I _know_ it's weird, but I just- I feel like I could really like her, even love her."

"Not if she's signing a restraining order." Bahorel chides, then thinks about it. "And you don't even  _know_ her."

"Only because I haven't been given the chance to." Marius says simply.

"Alright." Jehan says, turning the brim of their hat up, a clear sign of Serious Business ahead. Bahorel gets it; this is the first time they've really gotten to talk to Marius about this mystery person he fell head over heels for, without Enjolras telling them all that they are more important things to discuss or Courfeyrac and Grantaire enabling the shit out of him. Time to ask the real questions. "What if she's like me?"

Marius blinks at them, looking a little offended. "...black?"

Jehan's shoulders slump in irritation, and they let out an exasperated sigh. "Yes, Marius, have you been hiding your secret racist tendencies from us for two years. _No_ , I meant what if she's aromantic and asexual? Still care about finding her?"

"Of course." Marius answers instantly, and Jehan's head tilts in silent approval. "I mean, yeah, I think she's beautiful, but she also just looked... smart, and interesting, you know? I've never been so  _drawn_ to anyone before. I just-  _knew_ , you know? That if we met, we'd have this amazing connection. And I'm happy with whatever kind of relationship she'd want, if she wants one at all. Completely up to her." He says with finality, his voice and eyes sincere, and Jehan turns to Bahorel, obviously impressed.

Bahorel frowns, one last thing coming to mind; something they've just been going along with, but now that he thinks about it, "How do you know this mystery person is a 'she'?"

Marius does a little twitchy reluctant thing with his eyebrow. "Phone case that said 'girl almighty'?" Bahorel purses his lips, and Marius' face falls. "I know, I know, I'm on shaky ground and it's a bad habit." 

"As long as you're aware." Jehan says simply, then smiles contently. "But honestly, there has to be a better plan of action than 'follow random people around campus and hope for the best'."

"Well, I am open to suggestions."

Adjusting their hat, Jehan shakes their head, rolling their eyes in fond exasperation. "You guys and your pining. I mean, romance may not be my area, but I _refuse_ to believe it has to be as difficult as everyone makes it. We'll brainstorm, alright? Just-" They turn to look at Bahorel. "No flash mobs, simplicity." Then back to Marius. "And absolutely no more stalking."

\---

"What can I do for you, sweetheart?" The man leans over the counter with a grimy smile, an oil-smudged hand reaching up to scratch at the poorly maintained beard along his chin. The patch on his shirt reads 'Greg' and he smiles like someone who knows their time is about to be wasted.

Cosette does her best to smile back. "I wanted to make an appointment to get my car looked at, today if possible? The engine light is on, and it's been-"

"Our mechanics are busy right now, darlin', but..." He pokes at the keyboard in front of him, squinting at the screen. "We've got a spot in half an hour, you can make an appointment."

Okay, half an hour isn't bad. Better that then having her car implode or burst into flames, anyway. "Sure, that'd be fine."

Greg nods, slowly, punching at the keys again. "First and last, sweetheart?"

"Cosette Fauchelevent." 'And please stop calling me sweetheart', she doesn't say, but she does stop smiling at him. "And the car's been doing this funny thing where-" 

"You can tell the mechanic about it, that doesn't go on the form. Phone number?" She parrots the few digits, and he nods. "If you're more than ten minutes we cancel the appointment, you can wait in here if you want; there are magazines on the table."

He inclines his head slightly to the left, and Cosette follows the movement, turning to her right to see a ratty leather couch and a stack of old Cosmos and GQs, and makes a quick decision. "I'll... wait in my car, if that's alright."

Greg just grunts his acknowledgement, and Cosette sighs, turning on her heel and shuffling out the door, a little bell chiming as she goes. The still-brisk February breeze catches the hem of her skirts and she smiles at her reflection in the windows of the mechanics shop, watching as the golden-yellow fabric flutters around her knees dramatically. She nods to herself; _nice outfit choice, Cosette_. She rounds the corner and crosses the street, passing a small cafe as she goes, and is almost at her car when someone calls out to her.

"Excuse me? Um, yellow-skirt person?" 

She turns around to see a man around her age, pulling a thick, dark blue jacket over his shoulder as he walks, an easy, genuine smile on his face. He's- well, he's got tan skin, a light smattering of freckles scattered around his face, bright, kind eyes, and- simply put, he's a bit gorgeous. Not so much Cosette's type (her mind flicks to the boy with the oversized coat she saw outside her favorite cafe, and the blush that tinted his cheeks when she smiled at him), but she can appreciate an aesthetically pleasing person when presented with one. "Yeah?"

"I just-' He clears his throat, hands shoved in his pockets. "I saw you in the garage, and I wanted to ask what's wrong with your car?"

"Wish I knew." She shrugs. "The engine light is on, though, and when I stop at lights it shakes and jerks sometimes, and it didn't start right away this morning, which seemed... bad."

He nods, lips pursed. "Sounds like you need new spark plugs," He says thoughtfully. "Mind if I look under the hood?"

Cosette smiles to herself; nothing quite like the kindness of strangers. She waves him off anyway, explaining, "That's really generous of you to offer, but I was in the mechanic's making an appointment to get it checked out, actually."

He blinks at her for a second, then his eyes widen slightly in realization as he hurries to explain, "Sorry, I forgot I was covering-" He pulls at the right side of his jacket, revealing a shirt and name patch identical to Greg's, but with a red cursive 'Felix'. With a sigh, he continues, "I _work_ at the garage, and- well, honestly, if you just need a spark plug replacement and nothing's in danger of bursting into flames, I'd recommend waiting and going somewhere else, or, well, do you know your way around an engine?"

Ooh. Yeah, not so much. Cosette frowns apologetically. "I know where it is in the car?" 

Felix laughs at that, soft and the furthest thing possible from mean-spirited. "Oh don't worry about it- most people don't- I have this friend, med student, right? Can list every bone in the human body, can't remember which clamp of the jumper cable to attach to which terminal of the battery." He chuckles, and Cosette smiles weakly, because it seems like the thing to do, even though she understood about sixty percent of that. He pauses, considering. "I suppose it's funnier if you're a mechanic."

She smiles politely. "Probably."

"Anyway," He waves at the car with a sheepish smile. "You could even replace them yourself, there's probably something online telling you how, but here..." He glances back down the street, as if his boss is going to materialize up behind him and fire him for speaking against the shop. "They'll overcharge you, and some of the guys... have some really shitty ideas about how to interact with women. At the very _least_ they'll all talk down to you."

"Ah." Cosette's mind flashes back to Greg's 'sweethearts's, and she feels her nose scrunch slightly in distaste. Looking back to Felix, she asks, "Not that I don't appreciate it, but why are you telling me this? Isn't it good for you to get customers?"

He shrugs. "I'm off the clock, just got off for the day, I don't have anything to lose. I mean, even if I did, I wouldn't- but anyway, I've seen you around campus, so we can call this a student discount."

"Oh, well thats-" Cosette's father likes to say she has a guardian angel always looking out for her, and sending her good luck. It's times like this that she really believes him. "Thank you so much, I-"

He waves her away. "Gotta spread good karma, right? Just pay it forward if you really wanna thank me." He nods towards the car. "Shall we?"

"Oh, sure-" She shuffles over to the driver's side and unlocks it, then pops the hood. As Felix props it open, she peers inside, and next to her he hums thoughtfully, apparently seeing something she's missing because the only thing she can tell from looking under the hood is that there's definitely an engine in her car. Which is better than the alternative, at least.

"Okay." He says, nodding once. "Can you get in the car, turn it on,  _keep it in park_ , press down the break, and then slowly give it some gas?"

With the distinct impression that she's doing some kind of car witchcraft, Cosette does as he says, and as soon as she starts pressing down on the gas pedal, he exclaims happily, "Yup! Spark plug wires! You can shut it off!" She turns off the ignition as he walks, smiling, to her side of the car. "You don't  _have_ to, but you should probably replace your spark plugs when you get new wires. If you don't want to do it yourself I can give you the address of the only garage I trust around here- it's run by a woman and her two sons, who are both in school, so they know what college kids can afford, and they're great people. They even have a garage cat."

"That would be _so_ amazing," Cosette says gratefully, pulling out her phone quickly. Any establishment that comes with its own cat definitely has her seal of approval. "It's kind of my first time living somewhat on my own and Papa- my dad - worries a lot, and I'd love to be able to tell him that I fixed my car problems on my own. More or less."

Smiling, he gives her the address, watching as she types it in, and spelling out the street name for her. "They'll give you a good deal, I promise."

"I trust you." She says, sliding her phone back into her purse, before looking back to Felix, who's still leaning on her window. "Really, I can't thank you enough-"

He waves her away. "No worries. Like I said, good karma." He winks at her, patting the roof of her car. "Have a good rest of your day." 

As he turns and begins to walk away, Cosette is struck by two things- how he didn't ask her for  _anything_ in exchange for his advice and expertise, and how much she, well. She doesn't really have a lot of friends, (or any, if you don't count her roommate and the few people she talks to in classes) and since they go to the same school- he seems like someone she'd like to be friends with, someone who's easy to get along with. Before she realizes what she's doing, Cosette is grabbing her purse and climbing out of the car. "Wait!" She calls, and he turns around with that now-familiar easy grin. "Can I buy you lunch? To thank you."

He shakes his head. "That's really not nece-"

"Yeah, but I want to do it anyway." She interrupts, giving him her brightest smile. "Is the cafe down the street any good?"

Almost looking like he wants to protest again, he opens his mouth, and she fixes him with a stern look. Sighing, he shrugs. "Their sandwiches are pretty impressive, actually."

Cosette nods once in determination. "Then lead the way." She gestures forward, before stopping herself. "Oh, I'm Cosette, by the way, I don't think I said. And it's Felix, right?"

"Oh." He looks down at where his patch is half-covered by his jacket. "Actually, I just- teaching customers to pronounce my name is a hassle I don't really have time for, so I just go by Felix, but, Feuilly. My name's Feuilly."

"That's the easiest thing in the world to pronounce, I don't know what you're talking about." Cosette teases, and Feuilly grins at her. "It's nice to meet you, Feuilly."

"Nice to meet you too, Cosette."

\---

"Grantaire has a _date_."

Combeferre looks from the couch as Enjolras closes the door to their apartment behind him and sets his laptop case down on the floor. "Hello to you, too, Enjolras. My day was fine, thanks for asking."

Enjolras rolls his eyes; now is not the time. "He has a _date_. Grantaire doesn't date."

"Apparently he does." Combeferre says calmly, closing his book and setting it on their coffee table. Combeferre is Enjolras' first person to come to when he's upset or angry; he finds his best friend's endless rational composure comforting. "I heard Bossuet brought you food today, did you have lunch as well or should we get something to eat?"

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Combeferre, focus please."

Raising his hands in surrender, Combeferre pushes his glasses further up his nose and pats the seat next to him on the couch. "Sorry, sorry, I just thought you'd maybe like to have this conversation while eating takeout so you could stab things with your fork." As Enjolras moves to join him, Combeferre pulls out a plastic bag of two-toned green gummy rings. "Jehan brought them over, want one?"

Enjolras waves him away, leaning over to brace his elbows on his knees and fixing Combeferre with a stern look that gets him only a raised eyebrow in response. "Do you remember when I took that world history course freshman year and we were covering the different French revolutions, and Grantaire and I had all those arguments when he tried to argue that a monarchial system was preferable to a democratic one?"

"Vaguely?" Combeferre answers with a confused expression, before continuing with an ever-suffering sigh, "I remember a lot of arguing between you and Grantaire, and I'm _sure_ the French monarchy came up at some point."

"Right. Well, His date's name is  _Louis_."

"Enjolras," Combeferre says slowly, his voice teetering on the line between careful and stern. "You know how much I care about you, and respect your thoughts and opinions. So please keep that in mind when I tell you that there is no way in  _hell_ that Grantaire is dating someone purely because their name  _might_ remind you of an argument the two of you had more than two years ago."

Enjolras feels himself flush. It does seem kind of ridiculous when you put it like that. "Well, okay, maybe not, but-" He can't get the idea out of his mind. Grantaire and a date. Grantaire dating someone named _Louis_ , of all things. "Something about this just  _bothers_ me."

 "Well, is that really surprising?"

"Yes!" Enjolras exclaims, letting his head fall back against the corner of the couch as he groans. "All this time, I kept thinking the relationship never really felt  _over_ because Grantaire wasn't dating anymore. I thought once he started dating other people it'd be a relief, you know? Closure." He groans, raising his hands to his face to rub his palms against his eyelids. "Instead I just feel like I want to throw up and then find this 'Louis' person and show him some eighteenth century French hospitality." _  
_

"Please don't behead Grantaire's date."

"Don't tempt me." Enjolras says dryly, before shoving his fingers into his hair with an irritated groan. "It's been years, 'ferre.  _Years._ How can it still be affecting me like this?"

From across the couch, Combeferre scoffs. "You're asking the wrong person, I can't even-" But what he can't even, Enjolras will probably never know, because at that moment the door opens and they hear Courfeyrac's voice calling out Combeferre's name as he walks into the apartment.

Enjolras opens his eyes to see his best friend standing in the entrance space between their kitchen and the living room, hands on his hips, wearing an outfit that, except for the leggings and boots, is composed entirely from pieces of Combeferre's wardrobe. "What the _hell_ , Combeferre."

Looking to Combeferre, Enjolras watches as he lifts his head from where it was leaned back against the couch and looks first to Enjolras then to Courfeyrac, a judgmental quirk to his lips. "Do the two of you have something against a simple 'hello' when you enter a house?"

Courfeyrac's eyes narrow. "Don't get cute with me, I'm mad at you."

Raising an eyebrow, Combeferre says slowly, "I've been drafting a proposal since you left this morning, I haven't even gone outside the apartment, what could I have _possibly_ done-"

"You _slept_ with  _Joly."_ Courfeyrac interrupts, eyes narrowed, and Combeferre pales instantly, his mouth snapping shut. "And you didn't tell me."

Well. That... was not what Enjolras was expecting. For one thing, he was under the impression that Joly and Bossuet were if not involved then at least dancing around a relationship, and that Combeferre- well. Anyone who's spent more than a few minutes with Combeferre and Courfeyrac can tell that there's something between them, but Combeferre is definitely the more obvious of the two. 

"I-" Combeferre opens his mouth then closes it again, eyes wide. "I didn't see any reason to."

Courfeyrac stares back at him. "You  _didn't see any reason to_? Fuck's sake, 'ferre, how about 'because we're best friends and we tell each other shit'? Is that a good enough reason?" He runs his fingers through his bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. "Eponine knows, for some reason, and they just assumed I did too, because why wouldn't I? You're my best friend, you tell me everything."

Enjolras looks back at Combeferre, who looks lost, eyes slightly panicked. "I just didn't think it was a big deal." He says helplessly.

Courfeyrac, for a second, almost looks ready to let that be the end of it. Enjolras has known Courfeyrac since elementary school, he knows how much he hates being mad at his friends, how he's undoubtedly torn between wanting to forgive and forget and being hurt that Combeferre kept something like this from him. Sighing, Courfeyrac turns to look at Enjolras for the first time since he walked through the door. "What do you think?" He blinks. "Wait, did _you_ know?"

"No, I-" Enjolras shakes his head quickly. "They never told me, but-" He looks at Combeferre, who gives him a half pleading look. "I don't think it's any of my business? As long as it was safe and consensual, I don't see a problem here." Next to him, Combeferre exhales slowly, a grateful smile pulling at his lips. Enjolras almost smiles back; while he usually stays as neutral as he can on the rare occasions that Combeferre and Courfeyrac fight, he doesn't see any need for Combeferre to feel guilty for keeping his private life private.

Courfeyrac looks between the two of them for a second, then sighs in resignation. "Fine, whatever. Guess I overreacted."

"No, Courfeyrac," Combeferre leans forward hesitantly. "I didn't know it was something you'd care about, but-"

"I _don't_ , Combeferre." Courfeyrac interrupts with finality. "I don't care  _what_ you do, or who you do it with, I mean, _marry_ Joly if you want, it really doesn't matter. But maybe tell me about it next time?"

Combeferre's face shifts, just for a moment, a flicker of emotion that's gone in a second, and he nods, once. "Fine. Glad we had this talk." He pushes off the couch tensely, and grabs his phone from the table. "Enjolras, I think I'll go get the groceries we were talking about. I need some air."

Enjolras is a good enough friend that he doesn't ask 'what groceries' as Combeferre grabs his coat from the counter and is out the door without any semblance of a goodbye, leaving Courfeyrac gaping at the door as it shuts loudly behind him. "I'm-" Courfeyrac turns back to Enjolras. "Wasn't I the angry one here?"

He doesn't really have an adequate answer for that, so Enjolras just shrugs, and Courfeyrac sighs, deflated, and moves to flop down on the couch. "So how's _your_ day been?" 

"Grantaire has a date with someone named Louis." 

"Heard about that." He sinks into Enjolras' side, resting his head gently on his shoulder. "You okay?"

Enjolras honestly doesn't fucking know. He shrugs instead of answering, and they sit in silence for a second, just breathing together. 

"I do care, you know." Courfeyrac says finally, barely louder than a whisper. "It's just..." He trails off with a heavy sigh.

Nodding, Enjolras feels he understands completely. Caring hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack to this chapter: why do fools fall in love by the four seasons
> 
> [sings from the rooftops] _i know nothhinng about caaa-aarrs_  
>  _everything in this chapter came from gooo-glllle_  
>  _don't complain to meeee if you take the advii-ice in this chapter and blowww upp your ca-aarr_


	4. Two Days Until Valentines Day (Part Four)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weelll i failed pretty miserably at daily postings, didn't i? if you've been keeping up with me on tumblr you know i had some pretty legitimate reasons for my failure, though, so hopefully you're not too disappointed in me as a human being
> 
> regardless, i am finishing this fic, no worries, it'll just be late because my life is hectic and ridiculous
> 
> but i hope everyone who likes the fic will continue to like it even if i finish with valentine's day sometime around mid march
> 
> i mean capitalist america drags out valentine's day prep for like a month and a half, why can't i? [nervous laughter]
> 
> anyway yeah
> 
> enjoy i guess
> 
> (oh yeah i guess there's some mention of genitals and sex toys and whatnot in this chapter, so be aware of that, but it's totally not in the way you'd expect, so.)

"We're closed." Musichetta calls as she hears the door bell chime obnoxiously, not taking her eyes off the book of logic puzzles she's been scribbling in.

"...the door was unlocked, and your sign says open." Comes a voice, low and melodic with just a hint of roughness around the edges. Musichetta likes it immediately.

Doesn't mean she's letting it stay in her shop, though. "And yet we're closed."

"It's kind of an emergency?"

She lifts her head up slowly, popping the gum she's been chewing with an irritated snap. Her latest customer incapable of taking a hint is standing in the entrance and holding a computer like it might try to attack him at any moment. Also, he's gorgeous. And not in the sexy-and-I-know it way, but in a casual, understated way, from his lopsided striped beanie to his scuffed up, but otherwise completely unremarkable, shoes. She spares a second to look at his warm, kind eyes, his strong jaw, the lime green fleck of paint on his ear. His skin is gorgeously tan, just a couple of shades lighter than her own, and he's got strong, broad shoulders. He smiles at her, warm with a hint of mischief under the uncertainty, and Musichetta falls a little bit in love with him, right then and there. Odds are, however, that he's another subpar condescending male who will just waste her time. Alas, such is the way of the world. Musichetta raises an eyebrow at him. "An emergency like something's about to explode or like you've got a term paper due and your ex changed your password?"

"Er," His teeth tug at his bottom lip. "An emergency like a squirrel peed on my computer and I don't want to lose everything on it if the hard drive... um, dies. Or something."

"A squ-" Oh, this is very much not Musichetta's department. Besides, it's two minutes into her lunch break, and she is well within her rights as the only person in the store to shoo the guy out and lock the door behind him. She inhales. "Explain."

He sighs, before doing this little half frown, becoming the closest Musichetta's ever seen to a human emoji. It's more adorable than she's able to handle in her current sleep-deprived state. "Well, I- I was in the park, doing some reading for class, and it- I fell asleep, and when I woke up I had slept through a lecture, and there was a squirrel napping on my keyboard. I didn't realize until I went to grab my computer and scared the little guy, so much that it peed on my keyboard- out of fear or maybe spite- and ran off."

Right. Well. That's. To be fair, working in a computer repair shop, Musichetta sees a lot of unfortunate accidents - in the back they have a running tally of how many people they get per month who've accidentally run over their computers- but she's never seen anything  _squirrel related_ before.

"Look," Musichetta says, slowly. "Not that I don't sympathize, really, I do- but I'm coding, viruses, and password blocks. Repair's not what I'm paid for, and I'm really not equipped to deal with the aftereffects of the vindictive bladders of woodland creatures. _Also,_ I'm on my lunch break."

"Oh." He nods, slowly, his face falling. He looks like a kicked puppy, and Musichetta has priorities that take precedence over her reluctance to disappoint gorgeous human disasters, but she can't really remember any of them at the moment. "No, I get it. Sorry for wasting your time."

"No I didn't mean-" Musichetta gestures to the counter in front of her (which is mostly clear save the plastic container with a caesar salad waiting for her inside, that she is tragically not currently eating) and beckons the man forward. "You can leave the computer here, Igs- he's my manager, does our taking apart and putting back together stuff- his shift starts right after mine, in like twenty minutes, you can come back then, he might have a space open to look at it if you ask nicely."

He blinks at her, lips turning upward in a teasing smile. "You're taking a lunch break at the end of your shift?"

"Nowhere in the employee handbook does it explicitly say I can't."

Chuckling, his smile widens, and it's  _such_ a good smile. Smiles are very important to Musichetta, and his is honest, open, genuine, and with just a hint of mischief. Just the way she likes them. He walks to the counter and places a beat up covered from corner to corner in colorful, cartoonishly adorable stickers in front of her, without a hint of embarrassment.

Musichetta raises an eyebrow. "You didn't mention the laptop belonged to an eleven year old."

He makes an indignant noise. "Alright, first of all." He says with mock-sincerity, leaning an arm against the counter. "I happen to know an eleven year old, and he is morally opposed to all stickers that aren't related to skateboard brands, and would find your overgeneralization of his age group very insulting. Second of all, as you'll notice," He taps the surface of the laptop and Musichetta follows the movement. "Some of these are adorable cartoon dildos, and some of them are beautiful floral penii. This is a very mature, adult, sticker-covered laptop."

Musichetta's hand flies to her mouth to stifle her giggles when she sees that he's telling the truth; at least half the stickers are adorable pastel sex toys. The penis and vagina flowers _are_ quite beautiful, and almost pass as completely safe for work if you don't look too closely. Well, she supposes, most flowers look like genitals anyway. " _Penii_?" She laughs out, marveling at him; boys like him shouldn't exist, at least, not in Musichetta's universe. Boys with clever smiles and sincere eyes and broad shoulders and adorable sex toy stickers don't just walk into computer repair shops in the middle of the afternoon.  _  
_

"Is that not the plural?" He smirks. "Well, they're more just genital flowers in general, but I don't get many opportunities to use 'penii' in a sentence."

She leans forward, unable to keep the smile off her face as she inspects the surface of the laptop. She vaguely registers that this is probably the most absurd conversation she's ever had with another human being, but disregards that easily. There are more important matters at hand. "Where did you even _get_ these?"

He grins. "Well, the cats and planets are there because my roommate has a serious sticker problem. The more...  _mature_ stickers were designed by a friend of mine."

"This is the best thing I've ever seen." 

When she looks up, he's beaming at her, and she can't help but smile back as he clears his throat. "Um, I'm Bossuet, by the way."

"Musichetta." She says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He won't stop  _smiling_ at her, and it's making her heart do funny things, and she flips the laptop open just to have something else to look at. There's a faint discolored ring in the middle of the keyboard that she was expecting to see, but still has her chuckling to herself. "So. Did you try turning it on after the... incident?"

"Nah, I thought it might explode or something, knowing me." He says, with an easy shrug. "I'm mostly worried about it messing up the letter keys though," He gestures towards the keyboard. "See, the 'p' is really stuck in there."

Musichetta glances down for a second, before slowly lifting her head back up, an astonished smile pulling at her lips. "Did you... did you just make a _pun_ about the squirrel pee on and probably _in_ your computer?" Oh _god_ , she's in love.

Bossuet practically beamsat her. "It's my sixth computer so far, and I've broken every one before it. I have to find the humor in it somehow."

"You've broken _five computers_?" Musichetta pulls his laptop closer to her, eyeing him suspiciously and feeling immediately protective of the sticker-plastered piece of technology. "You _monster_." She hisses, and lets him look hesitant and a little afraid for a couple seconds before smiling again. "I'm kidding. Everyone breaks their computers at some point. It's like this secret rule of the universe or something. It's sad, but it keeps us in business, so I'm not complaining."

Bossuet visibly relaxes, letting out a breath of relief. "So you've broken a computer too, then?"

"Of course not, I'm a capable human being." She says with a grin, so he knows she's teasing him. But c'mon. She works in a  _computer repair shop._ Nothing's ever broken, not for her. "And even if I  _had_ , I'd tell you that five is excessive."

"What can I say, I've had a streak of bad luck." He says, shrugging casually, like his bad luck is some kind of endearing character trait, rather than a horrifying curse, no doubt on his entire family, that leaves poor, innocent, tragically destroyed laptops in its wake. "Though it seems to be turning around."

Musichetta looks at him, then raises a significant eyebrow and nods toward the animal-urine stained computer. "How exactly does this  _not_ qualify as bad luck?"

Bossuet lets out an amused breath, as if the answer should be obvious. "Got to meet you."

Oh. Musichetta doesn't blush. She doesn't blush, because her skin color won't allow it, and she's never been so grateful for that as she keeps her brow raised judgmentally. "Are you really flirting with me over-" She gestures to the pee-stained computer covered in sex toy and floral genital stickers. "This?"

"Well, the way I see it," Bossuet says, with that ever-present smile of his. "This might be the first and only time I get to talk to you, so I wanna make the most of it. It's a philosophy for life that I have: seize the moment, because tomorrow you might be dead."

Musichetta purses her lips, examining this strange, endearing, frustratingly attractive human being in front of her. "Well, I'll give you credit for a solid Buffy reference."

"No credit for my attempt to woo you with charming banter?" Bossuet says, pulling out a pair of puppy dog eyes that look like they could get him out of a murder charge. 

Musichetta, however, has dozens of troublemaking younger cousins, and is not so easily swayed. And there's nothing wrong with playing a little hard to get. She gives him a quick, appraising one-over, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "We'll see."

Bossuet stares at her with an undecipherable look on his face, a mixture of pleased and resigned and maybe just a tiny bit disappointed. "Alright then." He says slowly,  tapping his fingers against the counter. "Well, I'd hate to take up more of your break. I'll just come back at five to talk to... did you say his name was ' _Igs_ '?"

Musichetta falters, looking down at the counter, where a stack of business cards with 'IGNACIO CRUZ' in bold, commanding letters sits in front of her, silently judging her. She should give him one and send him out the door. It's her lunch break, and there's no reason for Bossuet to stay in the shop any longer because she  _can't_ help him, and she's within her rights to close for twenty minutes for lunch. She sighs. "You can stay, if you want." Musichetta says, trying for casual. "I mean, I'm just going to be eating my salad and staring blankly at the walls, I wouldn't mind the company."

Bossuet smiles wide enough that it must be almost painful, and pulls up a chair.

\---

Courfeyrac is sprawled across the couch, feet tucked into a blanket and watching Say Yes to the Dress when he hears the slow, determined knock that can only be Combeferre at the door. He pulls up his phone, checking himself quickly for bits of food in his teeth or stray Alfalfa hairs, and rushes to the door, pulling it open slowly.

Combeferre blinks down at him. "You're still here." He says, and doesn't sound surprised. He strides into the apartment, setting down bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. "Where's Enjolras? He wasn't answering my texts."

"I made him go to bed- he got  _maybe_  two and a half hours of sleep last night. And I may have confiscated his phone." Courfeyrac closes the door and locks it, looking towards his best friend, who's turned away from him and unpacking the paper bags. "I stuck around because I saw your keys on the table, and figured you'd need someone to let you back in."

"Oh. Thank you." He turns around, a can of olives in his hand, and frowns slightly at Courfeyrac. "Courfeyrac, I-" He says, at the same time that Courfeyrac begins to say, "Combeferre, you-" and the two of them break off, looking sheepishly at each other.

"I'm sorry." Courfeyrac says, after a second, because he always breaks first.

Combeferre blinks at him. "For what?"

Hand drifting up to curl the hair at the base of his neck, Courfeyrac replies uncertainly, "For upsetting you, first of all."

"You don't have to apologize for anything, Courf." Combeferre sighs.

"No, I do." Courfeyrac has a tendency to overreact, and to just say anything that comes to mind. Combeferre is the exact opposite, always thinking through everything before he says it, so his mouth never gets him into trouble. It's an enviable quality. "I made it sound like you were a bad friend for not telling me about it, and that was shitty of me. You're like the best friend that's ever existed, and your personal life is none of my business, and I'm sorry. Again."

Combeferre chuckles, crossing his arms and leveling Courfeyrac with one of those skeptical, teasing looks of his. It makes Courfeyrac breathe a little easier; when Combeferre is mad at him, his expression is blank and cold; the slight smirk on his lips means Courfeyrac is forgiven. "'None of your business', huh?" He raises an eyebrow. "Where was this attitude when you sabotaged my date with Lucas?"

Courfeyrac almost smiles at that; he, Bahorel and Grantaire had  _happened_ to walk by the cafe where Combeferre was having a date, and anything involving only Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Grantaire is bound to end in either being kicked out of an establishment, something catching fire, an excessive amount of glitter, or an impromptu musical number from a Disney movie. In this case, it was all four, and Combeferre shouldn't be judging him, because it made him laugh and he thanked them afterward, and he  _knows it_.

Regardless, Courfeyrac says defensively, "Your  _mom_ set you up on that one, and she has terrible taste in men. You were bored out of your mind, and you watch documentaries for  _fun_."

"Alright, I'll give you that one." Combeferre says, opening the fridge and sliding the milk inside. "But I'd also like to point out that you never even  _tried_ to hide your disdain for Elliot, and I actually liked him. For a time."

Courfeyrac barely resists the urge to shudder.  _Elliot_. Combeferre's relationship with Elliot was a low point in Courfeyrac's life, honestly. He was in basically every class Combeferre had, and they spent  _all_ their time together, laughing about things Courfeyrac didn't understand, and cuddling on the couch together, and critiquing each other's work and going to lectures together and cooking for each other and Courfeyrac hated everything about him. Not to mention he was an asshole to everyone  _but_ Combeferre, though for his sake Courfeyrac was convinced (read: forced on pain of death by Enjolras) to overlook that little fact. For a while, at least.

"He was  _so pretentious_ , Ferre." Courfeyrac whines, and watches a faint hint of a smile tug at Combeferre's lips. They've had this conversation before. "He said things in Latin just to confuse me, he always talked down to Gavroche, he had the  _nerve_  to call Jehan a 'pseudo-intellectual Ginsberg-wannabe who tries to hide their lack of talent by subscribing to this fad of genderneutrality and passing everything off as a 'social statement'." Courfeyrac grimaces; he's had that text message burnt into his memory since Combeferre showed it to him with a dangerous look on his face, the night after he had ended things with Elliot. He always feels a little bit of pride when he thinks about Combeferre dumping Elliot; Combeferre is a very patient man, but he doesn't tolerate _anyone_ disrespecting or mocking his friends. "Also, he was irritatingly tall."

Combeferre laughs. " _I'm_ tall."

"Well, exactly. That should have told you the relationship was doomed from the start. Aesthetically, two tall people dating each other is borderline terrifying." Also, Combeferre and Elliot just never looked right together. Combeferre was comfortable with him, sure, but never obviously happy. Combeferre deserves someone who'll make him smile, and laugh, and duck his head the way he does when he's embarrassed or flustered- not just someone who's _comfortable._

"So I should only date short men."

Courfeyrac nods; its a well-known fact that height differences lead to better matches. "For aesthetic reasons, yes."

"Hm. And no one boring, either." Combeferre nods, slowly, turning his back to Courfeyrac to pull a few oranges from one of the paper bags. "Do you have someone in mind?"

"Not now I don't." Courfeyrac huffs, crossing the kitchen and lifting himself up to sit on the counter beside Combeferre with a grin. "We've got a friendship outing to plan, and I'm not sharing you with anyone."

Combeferre looks at him, then, and Courfeyrac doesn't really recognize the expression on his face. It's not hurt, not really, and it's not teasing, or angry, it's just. Weird. It makes Courfeyrac uncomfortable, and gives him the distinct impression he's done something wrong. Combeferre blinks, and his face shifts, eyes narrowing slightly before he says, sounding almost bored, "Get off the counter."

 _Oh_. Courfeyrac exhales, relieved. He'd been worried it was something serious. He sticks his lip out, pouting at Combeferre. "Gavroche sits on the counter."

"Gavroche is  _eleven_ , you're a grown man."

"Look at me." Courfeyrac gestures to himself. He's wearing Combeferre's sweater, which hangs limply off his shoulders, a pair of black leggings studded with tiny gold stars and moons, tucked into a pair of Combeferre's socks and a pair of gold ankle boots. An outfit he can totally rock, thank you very much, but it does make him look a bit like a six year old who's really passionate about pretending to be an astronaut. "What part of me fits the definition of 'grown man'?"

"Your age?" 

"Eh, semantics." Courfeyrac says, waving him away, but hops off the counter anyway, and Combeferre nods in satisfaction. As Combeferre turns back to the counter and begins folding up the paper bags, Courfeyrac thinks about the day he's had, and the way everyone had reacted to their Valentine's Day plans. Hesitantly, he asks, "Hey, do you still wanna do the whole friendship outing thing?"

Combeferre freezes, tensing just enough that Courfeyrac notices and wonders if maybe their friends have been giving him enough of a hard time that he's uncomfortable with the whole thing. He's about to call it off when Combeferre says, still not looking at him, "Why? Did you get a better offer?"

Courfeyrac laughs; he's gotta be kidding. "Seriously? Did I not just say I didn't want to share you on friendship outing day? And now you think I'm going to ditch you for someone else, how fickle do you think I  _am_?" He says, feigning hurt, and Combeferre turns to look at him, rolling his eyes as he does so.

"Well, okay, I see your point. But, if not to give yourself an excuse, why ask?"

"Dunno." Courfeyrac fidgets. "I just thought maybe - our friends seem to think it's more than it is, and I just wanted to make sure that you were still comfortable." _Because our friends are awful people devoted to making everything more than is and trying to pressure me into thinking about things I've been trying really hard not to think-_

"I feel like they mostly just want to give you a hard time about the term 'friendship outing', honestly." Combeferre says, thankfully interrupting Courfeyrac's train of thought. "But no, I'm still on board with the friendship outing if you are."

Courfeyrac sighs, defeated. "It sounds so much more official and serious when you say it."

"Doesn't everything?"

Courfeyrac bumps Combeferre with his hip petulantly, and Combeferre just laughs.

\---

"The hell do you think you're doing."

Feuilly turns to look at him, a tired but fond smile crinkling at his nose and the corners of his eyes. "Watching water boil."

Bahorel sets his bookbag down on the floor next to their couch, closing the door behind him with a sigh. He looks around their living room and into the slightly dingy kitchen, taking in the smell of warming sauce and smiling at the music playing from their beat up, taped up, nudge-the-cord-slightly-and-it-stops-working speaker; Feuilly likes to cook to his favorite music, and Bahorel would recognize Santana's 'Migra' anywhere. "We have rules against you cooking in this apartment, you know. Very official looking, on the pink post-its and everything."

"I," Feuilly says, picking up their wooden spoon from the counter and holding it out significantly, "Am not the one with the history of arson."

Bahorel takes a step towards him and pulls the spoon out of his hand. "Yeah, you're just the one who's been at work since friggin' five in the morning. Siddown."

Feuilly rolls his eyes, and leans against the counter in half-compliance. "Oh man, don't know what I'd do without a big strong man like you cooking my pasta for me." He says, deadpan. "All that stirring is _so_ physically exhausting." He grins at Bahorel, a little tired, a bit mischievous, but mostly just soft. And warm. It makes Bahorel want to kiss him.

He looks down at the gently bubbling water mainly to have something to look at, and huffs, "Shut your face." Feuilly sighs, long-suffering, and Bahorel ignores it, asking, "So, how was your day off?" It's something of an inside joke between the two of them; technically, Thursday's are the only day of the week Feuilly doesn't have class, and most people would use the break to rest, maybe catch up on schoolwork. Feuilly doesn't really have that luxury.

As Bahorel reaches for the box of spaghetti on the counter, Feuilly shrugs. "Nothing special. Some asshole kept hitting on Mari, so I had to take her area for a bit. He was a shit tipper." Bahorel nods; Feuilly works in a halfway decent diner a few blocks from campus, and is one of the only male waiters in the joint. Of course, being Feuilly, he's intervened on behalf of his female coworkers more times than Bahorel can count. "Oh, and I met someone."

The slight emphasis he puts on the 'someone' gives Bahorel a funny feeling, like the kind he gets when he knows Enjolras or Courfeyrac or Jehan or Grantaire has gone a step too far in front of some burly white-supremacist asshole, and he just  _knows_ someone's gonna get punched. "Oh?" He says, breaking the spaghetti with maybe a bit more force than is strictly necessary.

"Yeah, her name's Cosette and she's majoring in social work. Wants to work with foster kids." And,  _fuck_. Bahorel can practically  _hear_ Feuilly's smile. "I invited her to our next Amis meeting, but she's got a class Wednesday evenings. We exchanged numbers, though; she seems really great."

Bahorel grimaces, but only the pasta can see him. The pasta probably sympathizes. "Yeah, well, careful; she's probably trying to convert you or something." He sets the wooden spoon down on the counter. "Besides, the meetings are full enough as it is."

There's a moment of silence, long enough to have Bahorel almost wondering if Feuilly's dozing off in the middle of a conversation again, before he hears a soft chuckle next to him, closer than Feuilly's voice was before. "Careful," He teases, bumping Bahorel gently with his hip. "You're sounding a little jealous, there."

Bahorel's mind races with a hundred equally indignant responses of pure denial, before he feels Feuilly gently rest his chin on Bahorel's shoulder, his breath slow and soft and very fucking close to Bahorel's ear. It's an ongoing thing between the two of them, in which Feuilly blatantly refuses to admit that Bahorel is _obviously_  taller than him. Yes, they're very close in height, and  _yes,_ when they put it to a vote most of their friends agreed that Feuilly had almost half an inch on Bahorel, but they're all rotten liars, and Bahorel knows the truth. Feuilly likes to live in his little bubble of denial, though, and is always doing shit like this to show off his non-existent height advantage, so it's not exactly unusual. Bahorel's heart flops like a dying fish anyway.

"The water's gonna boil over." He murmurs quietly, sending a slight shiver up Bahorel's spine, and jesus  _fuck_ if he knew taking Feuilly in as a room-mate was going to give him this many heart problems he would've bunked with Grantaire instead.

Bahorel, because flirting with Feuilly rates somewhere between white men in positions of power and spiders on his mental list of things that are utterly fucking _terrifying,_  goes with his instinct and elbows Feuilly in the stomach. Not hard or anything, just enough to give him some room to breathe without feeling like he's trying to inhale his own heart. "Fuck off, I know what I'm doing." He says, but lowers the heat anyway. "Where'd you meet the next Mother Theresa, anyway? Another 'gracious' tipper at the diner?" Bahorel snorts at his own joke; Feuilly is  _much_ more than a pretty face, but that's not to say his face doesn't come in handy now and again when it's bringing in just enough tips for them to cover the rent.

"Nah, took a look at her car."

Bahorel turns on his heel, looking sternly at Feuilly, who has a dry spaghetti noodle halfway to his lips because Feuilly is fucking  _weird_ and eats uncooked pasta and it's one of the ten million things about him that Bahorel shouldn't find half as endearing as he does. "By 'took a look at her car' you gotta mean you were paid to find out what was wrong with the engine because that's your friggin' job and you realize that turning people away from the garage  _where you work_  is gonna get you fired one day, right?"

Feuilly waves him away with a roll of his eyes just as a pathetic little mewl comes from below them, and a tiny, black and white, overly fluffy monstrosity leaps onto the counter beside him. Her name is Harley, Feuilly found and saved her when she was a kitten and left in an alley somewhere because he's not a real human being, and apparently the owner of their shitty apartment building forgot to add 'no cats' to the lease, so they've been exploiting that loophole for some time (dogs are _especially_ forbidden, and Bahorel will be bitter about that until the day he dies). She  _adores_  Feuilly, somewhat tolerates Bahorel's existence, and likes to sit in the hall closet and contemplate the nature of evil.

Feuilly scoops the cat up and cradles her in his arms, smiling at her as she sniffs at him for signs of weakness. "Hey girl," He says, with a soft, affectionate smile. "Where've you been hiding?" 

"In Bahorel's room, getting fur on his formal overalls." Bahorel huffs, and Feuilly gives him an exasperated look.

"We've been over this." Feuilly says, adjusting his grip on the cat, who sits in his arms like a discontent monarch. "There's no such thing as  _formal overalls_."

Snorting, Bahorel stirs the pasta slowly. "Oh, Feuilly of little faith." He inclines his head toward the living room. "Go feed the cat and pick out a movie; food's almost done."

"Don't tell me what to do." Feuilly says petulantly, but goes anyway, telling Harley about his day as he walks down the hall.

Bahorel resists the urge to thump his head against the cabinets as he pulls a couple of mismatched bowls out and sets them on the counter. He can't tell. He honestly can't fucking tell whether or not Feuilly feels  _that_ way about him. Hell, he doesn't even know Feuilly's type; he's always said he's too busy for relationships. Sometimes, he thinks-  _maybe_ , but then he second guesses himself and it's all a big fucking mess. _  
_

Feuilly re-enters the living room and crouches in front of their collection of movies (mostly belonging to the action, rom-com, or disney genres). Mustering more courage than should be necessary for a simple question, Bahorel calls, "Hey, you doing anything on Saturday?"

Bahorel knows Feuilly's schedule so well he almost feels weird about it, but then he remembers that Joly and Combeferre have the daily schedules of  _every single one of their friends_ memorized, and he doesn't really worry that he knows for a fact that Feuilly gets off at nine and has the rest of the day free.

"Uh, yeah." Feuilly responds, eyes scanning their shelves of DVDs. "Managed to pick up another shift at the diner."

God fucking dammit. "On _purpose_?"

"Yeah, man, it's  _Valentine's Day_." Feuilly says, turning to look over into the kitchen. "Way I figure it, either I get lots of people on dates who'll tip heavy to seem generous, or some single people I can try to cheer up a bit."

Bahorel snorts back a laugh. 'Cheer up' his ass. Okay, admittedly, Feuilly is just nice enough of a person to care about whether or not people are sad when they enter his diner, and always goes out of his way to make sure they leave feeling even just a little bit better. He is also, however, a kid of the foster system trying to put himself through college. "So they'll fall in love with you and tip even heavier."

"Hey," Feuilly shrugs, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Your words, not mine."

Grinning, Bahorel begins dividing the pasta. "Pick a movie yet?"

"Tie between Dogma and Strictly Ballroom."

Bahorel nods his approval as he moves into the living room, carrying a bowl in each hand (he kinda forgot they'd be hot when he picked them up and walks a little faster by necessity). "Both excellent choices. Though I don't know why I let you pick the movie, you'll be out ten minutes in." Setting their food down on their shitty, five-dollar coffee table that looked about twenty times better after Feuilly took a paintbrush to it, Bahorel relaxes into the couch with a content sigh. Harley's sitting on the other side of the couch, already half-asleep and squinting at him with suspicious eyes. 

"If I do fall asleep, don't you dare try to carry me to bed again." Feuilly says, sliding a DVD into the player without showing Bahorel what he's decided on. "I don't want to end up with a concussion."

"Hey, that was  _one time_ , and I was sorta drunk."

Feuilly picks himself up the floor and settles down next to Harley, who curls into him almost immediately. Reaching for his food, Feuilly gives Bahorel a look. "You still hit my head on the doorway, and you're still not forgiven."

The movie turns out to be Dogma, and Feuilly, unsurprisingly, is asleep before they even get to the Mooby scene, which is just tragic, because that scene is a goddamn masterpiece. Bahorel turns at the sound of Feuilly's soft, intermittent snoring, and sees him, feet kicked up on the table and the fluffy feline monstrosity curled up on his stomach, his head bent to the side in a way that has to be uncomfortable, but everyone is well aware that Feuilly can fall asleep absolutely anywhere. He's got a hand on Harley, like he fell asleep halfway through scratching behind her ears, and a soft, sleepy smile on his face. Bahorel doesn't want to wake him up, but he _really_ doesn't want to let him sleep there, and Feuilly won't be pleased if he tries to carry him again, so he sighs and turns off the t.v. before moving to stand above his best friend and gently shake him awake.

Harley wakes up first, looking at him with her condescending cat eyes before jumping off Feuilly and moving to sit on the floor, glaring up at him challengingly. Feuilly blinks at him when he wakes up, eyes soft and warm and a gentle smile on his face, and Bahorel wants to kiss him. He kind of always wants to kiss him. Feuilly's the best person he knows, and he's so gentle and loving with this wicked streak that Bahorel prides himself on bringing out, and Bahorel just wants to kiss him  _all the time_.

"Hey," Feuilly says sleepily, still smiling at Bahorel peacefully, and his heart beats just that much faster. _God_ , he's so gone for him it's not even funny. "Guess we'll have to finish the movie some other time."

Bahorel snorts, holding out a hand to help Feuilly to his feet. "Like you don't know it by heart already."

Chuckling, Feuilly stands shakily and almost immediately envelops Bahorel in a warm hug, pulling away before Bahorel really has a chance to hug back and smiling sleepily at him. "G'night, 'rel." He murmurs, before staggering down the hall. 

Bahorel watches him go, a soft, fond smile on his face, and sighs when Feuilly tucks into his bedroom and out of sight. "Bahorel, you are truly fucking pathetic." He says quietly. Harley, quietly disapproving from where she's sprawled across the floor, gives a tiny mewl of agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack to this chapter: is this love by bob marley & the wailers
> 
> oh, and courfeyrac's boots are based off of [these](https://41.media.tumblr.com/146ffd1a93fa5994ddc77df506316dd9/tumblr_njenjpqU9t1qgiwg0o1_1280.jpg)
> 
> additionally if anyone's thinking 'oh my god i need cute dildo and/or floral penis stickers in my life', well, i based them off of sticker sets found [here](http://www.lookhuman.com/design/59442-cute-sex-toy-stickers) and [here](http://www.lookhuman.com/design/58366-penis-pattern-stickers) so have fun friends


	5. One Day Until Valentines Day (Part One)

For the record, Courfeyrac doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with how much time he spends in Combeferre’s apartment, bed, or clothes.

Because first off, Combeferre and Enjolras are his closest friends in the whole word, and he likes spending time with them, and what better place to do so than in their apartment? Exactly.

Second, yes, they have a third bedroom, but it’s mainly Gavroche’s at this point, and usually on the occasions Gavroche _isn’t_ staying the night Courfeyrac forgets that minor detail and just tucks into Combeferre’s bed anyway. Also, Enjolras is a cover hog, and Courfeyrac is a cover hog, so sleeping in Enjolras’ bed could only end in tears (and they would be Courfeyrac’s, because Enjolras is a kicker).

And third, Enjolras, bless his angry soul, owns like, nine outfits. Max. Borrowing his clothes would just be _mean_.

So yes, it is perfectly reasonable, justifiable and platonic when Courfeyrac crawls out of Combeferre’s bed and pulls on Combeferre’s university sweatshirt, smiling to himself at the all-too-familiar smell of Combeferre’s fabric softener. What _is_ weird is that Combeferre’s not still in bed; he can’t remember the last time he’s slept over and not woken up to either Combeferre smiling sleepily at him or his quiet breaths filling the air.

He goes to the en-suite bathroom first; brushes his teeth with the toothbrush Combeferre has set out for him (he bought a pack of two and Courfeyrac spends enough time at their apartment to justify it), runs some of his dry shampoo through sleep-mussed curls, and winks at his reflection in the mirror, because if you can’t flirt with yourself, who can you flirt with? Exactly.

Trudging out of Combeferre’s room, he makes his way to the kitchen, trying to remember his dream from the night before- Joly and Marius were knighted, he thinks, and Grantaire had wooden teeth, and a deer was thrown through a window at some point? Whatever it was, it made absolutely no sense at all. He can’t wait to tell Combeferre about it. 

He steps out of the hallway and immediately sees Combeferre sitting at the bar that divides the kitchen from the living room with Eponine balanced on top of it, leaning over him, close enough that their bodies are almost pressed together, and slowly, almost sensually, running her hands through his hair.

Courfeyrac blinks.

“Oh hey, you’re up.” Eponine says, eyes flicking over to Courfeyrac as her fingernails trail idly across the shaved sides of Combeferre’s head. “Will you tell Combeferre his hair looks sexy pushed back?”

Courfeyrac is, apparently, still dreaming.

“Because,” Eponine continues, fingers trailing down to ghost against Combeferre’s jaw, one hand resting on the skin between his neck and collarbone, apparently unaware that there are rules against fondling Combeferre’s upper body in the kitchen. Or, at least there should be. There has to be legislation condemning it _somewhere_. “I keep telling him that he should grow it out, and that he’ll look really good with it pulled back into a bun, but he’s not listening.”

Courfeyrac purses his lips, glancing at Combeferre who looks- well, a lot less uncomfortable than he should, considering he’s being _fondled_ and it’s not even noon. He tries to imagine him with the same undercut but a messy bun resting on his head and, unsurprisingly, imaginary Combeferre is still gorgeous, maybe even more so. Courfeyrac shrugs. “Aren’t man buns a little overdone?”

“Don’t let Bahorel hear you say that,” Combeferre teases, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Eponine resumes playing with his hair and Courfeyrac’s stomach lurches uncomfortably, which is probably a sign he should get some breakfast.“So I shouldn’t grow it out?”

Courfeyrac shrugs, shuffling through the living room and into the kitchen. “You’ll be attractive no matter what you do, it’s up to you really.”  

Shoulders sinking, Eponine sighs and lets her hand drop from his hair, praise be unto the blessed lord. “Ignore him. I think you’d look hot.”

“Ignore her, do what you’re comfortable with.” Courfeyrac counters, rifling through the fridge. It’s not an uncommon occurrence for their friends to appear in the apartment uninvited at random times during the day, so Eponine perched on the bar and eating frozen blueberries isn’t exactly a surprise, and neither is the current topic of conversation. See, the thing is, when you spend enough time with people, they tend to bring out certain things in you. Enjolras brings out Combeferre’s scarily efficient and intelligent side, Joly brings out his affinity for shitty puns about insects and space, Feuilly brings out his calm, unshakable logic, Courfeyrac-

Courfeyrac isn’t really sure what he brings out in Combeferre, honestly.

But the point is, Eponine brings out parts of Combeferre no one knew he had. Eponine was the one to introduce Combeferre to her friend the tattoo artist before anyone else even knew he _wanted_ work done. So if Combeferre’s thinking of growing his hair out for the first time in the years they’ve known each other, it _would_ be Eponine who’s the first to encourage it. 

They have a weird dynamic, the two of them. At first Courfeyrac hadn’t understood why they were spending so much time together - they seemed to always visit him and Marius together, without explaining when they had met up or why they were there- but it makes sense, if you think about it. They share a love of thrift stores, the same dry, sarcastic sense of humor, and a similar no-nonsense way of going about life; whenever they get together Courfeyrac is always reminded of supervillian team-ups in old Batman comics. They’re not close enough to be best friends - Courfeyrac is still proud to hold that title, thank you very much - but ‘partners in crime’ isn’t all that far from the truth.

“Whatever,” Eponine says finally. “Courf, you wanna go to a thing at Gavroche’s school?”

“Of course. When?”

Glancing at the clock Courfeyrac bought half to amuse Combeferre and half to irritate Enjolras (instead of numbers it has mathematical equations that _result_ in the hours of the day), Eponine says, “Er… about an hour from now? Leaving in twenty.”

Courfeyrac shrugs, filling up a bowl of his favorite cereal. “I’ve got class at one-fifteen, just need to be back by then.” He navigates the kitchen with familiar ease, pulling a spoon from the drawer and perching on the stool next to Combeferre. “So what’s the occasion?”

Eponine huffs, glancing at Combeferre for a moment, before leaning back on her palms. “Well, Gavroche has been having some trouble at school. Nothing major, he’s just a cabróncito who talks back to his teachers and thinks the rules are ‘made by fascists’, so they don’t apply to him.” She rolls her eyes, kicking her feet lazily against the bar. “So yesterday, we get a call from his teacher- Grantaire had to pretend to be my dad, and was worryingly good at it- but anyway, she apparently thinks anarchist tendencies mean ‘unstable home environment’, and the fact that mom and dad haven’t shown up to a single school function and Gavroche is only ever picked up by either me or random people in their twenties doesn’t help.”

“And the last fucking thing I need right now is nosy teachers thinking about ‘unstable home lives’ or whatever. Like, okay, he doesn’t always stay in the same place, his parents are dirtbags, and I only have fond childhood memories of life above the poverty line, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take care of him.” Eponine brings a hand up to run her fingers through her hair, pushing her bangs away from her face. “Anyway, last week I signed up to help with this Valentine’s Day fair they’re having for the kids, thought it might be nice to show a little interest in Gav’s school. But I got to thinking, wouldn’t this be a good time to pretend to be a stable family? I don’t know any middle-aged people who’ll act like my parents, though, so we’ll work the brothers and sisters angle. I already called Bossuet and Feuilly, they’re on their way, and the five of us are gonna work the fair and act like a stable, middle class family whose parents couldn’t make it because they work stable, middle class jobs.” She finishes, looking satisfied with what Courfeyrac can only call a scheme, and raises an eyebrow, silently asking for his opinion.

“Um.” Courfeyrac chews his cereal slowly. “We don’t look anything like siblings?”

Eponine waves her hand dismissively. “We’re all more or less hispanic, Feuilly looks the right color, and the school is run by white people. Literally no one will notice.”

“Right.” It’s, admittedly, not the worst idea he’s ever heard. And honestly there are few things on this earth that Courfeyrac likes more than a good scheme. But- “Wait, five of us. ‘Ferre’s coming?”

Eponine smiles, looking almost worryingly pleased with herself. “Mm-hmm.”

“So he’s what, our long-lost cousin from Mumbai?”

The look Eponine gives him then is the same one she gave Enjolras the first time she demonstrated exactly how easy it was to pick his pockets. It officially crosses into worrying territory. “That’s the best part. Combeferre and I are engaged.”

What. “What.”

“It was Combeferre’s idea.” Eponine says, and Courfeyrac’s eyes flick to his best friend immediately. “And when you think about it, he’s perfect. Handsome, smart, dresses well, and I don’t think he’s ever met an authority figure he couldn’t charm.” And, well, she’s not _wrong_ , but.

Courfeyrac looks at Combeferre expectantly, hoping the words will make more sense coming out of his mouth.

Combeferre clears his throat. “What was it you said- I ‘ooze respectability’?” Okay, true. “And I wanted to help, but obviously I don’t look like family, so.”

From a logical standpoint, it makes sense. Still makes Courfeyrac uncomfortable, though. 

“ _Any_ way,” Eponine calls after a moment, looking incredibly pleased with herself. “‘Ferre, do you think I could borrow some clothes? Maybe a blazer? I’m going for business casual, I even found a pair of those ballet flat things for a couple bucks.”

Courfeyrac, who has never seen Eponine wear anything but heeled or steel-toed boots, even in summer, admires her commitment to the role. He has no opinions whatsoever about Eponine in Combeferre’s clothing. None at all.

“His clothes are gonna be a bit big on you, don’t you think?” He says anyway.

Eponine shrugs. “I’ll make it work.”

“Sure, you know where my bedroom is.” Combeferre says offhandedly, and Courfeyrac has no opinions about that sentence either. 

Eponine smiles and hops off the bar, stopping for a second to mutter a quick “Thanks,” and give Combeferre a kiss on the cheek before sauntering down the hallway. For a moment, Courfeyrac feels kind of… uncomfortable, before he remembers that he has literally been sharing Grantaire’s shirt while watching a drunken Joly giving Feuilly a lap dance on a dare, and that their group of friends doesn’t really comprehend the whole boundaries thing. Still, he has been feeling uncomfortable most of the morning, maybe he’s coming down with something…

“Oh, I almost forgot-“ Combeferre breaks the silence, pulling out his phone and unlocking it with a quick swipe of his thumb. “Jehan’s coming over at eleven, I’ll have to reschedule.”

Courfeyrac frowns. “I didn’t know we had plans with Jehan.”

“Well, _you_ don’t have plans with them, so that’s understandable. “ Combeferre murmurs, typing idly, and looks up when Courfeyrac makes an offended noise. “They’re coming over to watch a documentary, I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“I watch documentaries with you all the time!” Courfeyrac gapes at Combeferre- years of staying up late watching VHS documentaries rented from the library, planning their lives around NOVA specials- had all of that meant _nothing_?

“Yes, but corpses make you uncomfortable.” Combeferre says simply, setting the phone down next to his laptop. “Nonetheless corpses of brutally murdered people preserved in sludge for thousands of years.”

Courfeyrac blinks at him, mouth opening slightly in surprise. Well, he won’t deny that corpses are horrifying and it was very sweet of Combeferre to think of him before _betraying_ him, but- “What- what the hell kind of documentary are you _watching_?”

“Oh, it’s really fascinating, these Irish archae-“ Combeferre starts, before the computer on the bar interrupts him with a low pinging sound and a Skype call from Jehan floats in the middle of the screen. “Oh, hold on…”

He clicks the accept button and Jehan’s face pops up on screen, freezing for a second before coming into focus. They smile lazily, dreadlocks piled on their head, smudges of paint and paste accenting their dark skin. “Hello, I can’t move my hands.”

Combeferre’s lips quirk in amusement. “Any particular reason why?”

“I’m making casts of them, and won’t able to move for another fifteen minutes.” They say slowly, in their usual monotonous but singularly striking tone. “Left my phone across the room, tragically, but I heard it do the buzzing bit, and wasn’t sure if it was important, and am also a bit bored, so voila. Skype call.”

Courfeyrac frowns. “If you can’t move your hands, how’d you make a Skype call?”

“I’ve got a talented tongue. And nose.” They say simply, before looking expectantly to Combeferre. “So, what was the message?”

“Wait, and how did you know it was Combeferre texting if the phone was on vibrate-“

“Eponine’s got this… plan, and it’ll take most of the morning, so I think we’ll need to reschedule our screening of the Perfect Corpse.” Combeferre answers, as Courfeyrac mutters.

“-and across the room?”

Jehan either doesn’t hear Courfeyrac or is trying to preserve an air of mystery, and simply nods, lips pursed. “That’s fine, we can watch it another day.” They smile slyly. “After all, it’s not like the bodies are _going anywhere_.” They finish, wiggling their eyebrows with a sly, expectant smile.

Combeferre blinks at them for a moment, before letting out a small exhale of laughter, and onscreen, Jehan giggles. 

Courfeyrac looks between the two of them, from Combeferre’s amused smirk to Jehan’s shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. “I don’t get it.”

Turning to him, Combeferre smiles obligingly. “Well, the documentary is about Bog Bodies, these ancient corpses which are, obviously, dead, but they were also staked to the bottom of bogs, and are so well preserved they’re essentially frozen in time.”

“Not to mention they’re part of permanent exhibits, so.” Jehan smiles, wide and enormously pleased. “They’re really not going _anywhere_.”

Combeferre snorts back another laugh, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, unable to keep the smile off his face. Fricking _nerds_. 

\---

There’s something just the tiniest bit pretentious about a coffeeshop with its own rose garden and three-tier fountain. Sure, Cosette can understand a little decoration, something to draw in customers, but surely the ambiance of quaint metal tables under an artistically-draped awning would sufficiently draw in hipster crowds without the large and obtrusive fountain that sneaks up on unsuspecting students just trying to drink their tea in peace.

Okay, yes, Cosette did walk into the stone basin of the fountain because she wasn’t looking where she was going and yes, she’s currently balanced on one foot trying to assess the damage and whether or not the scrape on her ankle necessitates a bandaid of some kind, but the point remains that a fountain is a superfluous and tacky public hazard. Also, she thinks some of the blame should fall on her room-mate, who turned off Cosette’s alarm this morning so she almost missed her eight am, didn’t have time to do her hair nonetheless put in her contacts, and thus was forced to wear her spare glasses, which she is not used to, and are probably responsible in some part for her lack of depth perception. Also, these are new shoes, and she hasn’t quite got the hang of walking in them.

Also, ow.

_What a waste of a perfectly good pair of tights,_ Cosette thinks, uncomfortably examining the rip in the fabric and the cut it exposes with one hand while holding her bag and half-drunk mug of tea in the other, trying futilely to keep her glasses from sliding off her nose, _maybe I can patch it up with some nail polish, it’s not that big of a-_  

A few things happen almost simultaneously. Cosette hears something muttered in an unfamiliar language - though it sounds like Mandarin -from behind her and slightly to the left, something large and blunt collides with her back, which is already twisted uncomfortably to get a better look at the shoe, someone says something that sounds panicked and - German? maybe? - and then she’s falling, backwards, into the fountain.

\---

“You’re staring again.”

Combeferre lowers his head, pretending to survey the cotton candy flavors. “I think we should make another batch of green apple, the kids seem to really enjoy that.”

“ _Right_.” Eponine says slowly, clicking her tongue against her teeth. Combeferre looks up again, just enough to catch a glimpse of Courfeyrac helping a little girl put an ungodly amount of sprinkles on a heart-shaped cookie, and Eponine snorts back a laugh before sighing dramatically. “Oh, goodness me, my fiancé is in love with another man. What ever will the girls at book club say?” A beat. “You _do_ realize you’re still staring, right?”

Combeferre groans, pushing the frame of his glasses further up on his nose. “He’s just- everything he does is-” _Mesmerizing. The word you’re looking for is mesmerizing, though captivating and entrancing would be sufficient substitutes. Stop staring at him._ He glances down at the flavors again, grateful for something to look at that isn’t Courfeyrac with his candy stained lips pulled into a playful smile and red-glitter dusted cheeks and sparkly heart-adorned headband and general- _Courfeyracness_. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

Eponine turns, holding the paper cone carefully between manicured fingernails. “Oh yeah, I really twisted your arm.” She rolls her eyes, turning back to the cotton candy machine and letting the wisps of sugar twist around the cone. “And excuse you, it’s a great idea.”

“It’s a waste of time.” Combeferre mutters, mentally counting the amount of cotton candy they’ve prepared and trying to decide whether they should make more of the green apple or pink vanilla. “And I don’t like lying to him.”

“It’s not _lying_.” Combeferre’s brow shifts up significantly, and Eponine huffs. “Okay, it’s lying, but it’s for a good cause! Yeah, okay, the administration doesn’t give a fuck whether or not Gav is teaching his classmates about fascism, but he _loves_ being able to show off his cool older friends, the PTA was understaffed anyway, and after today I won’t have to volunteer at a single school event for the rest of the year, and that includes St. Patrick’s, Easter, _and_ fifth grade graduation.” Eponine grins, leaning forward slightly to place a sticky cone of cotton candy into the equally sticky hands of a giggling child. “I don’t have to deal with these little monsters by myself, and I’m not going to pretend I don’t love being able to show off my hot, smart, pre-med boyfriend in front of all the shitty PTA women who look at me like I’m trash. It’s perfect.”

“For you, maybe.”

Eponine glances at him, picking up another cone from the stack. “Let’s see. What are Courfeyrac’s favorite things other than everyone and cats? Children, holidays, and helping people. And if Feuilly weren’t here, he’d be studying or picking up another shift. At least here he gets to sit and sort of rest and have a crowd of little kids squealing over his artwork. And Bossuet was totally looking for an excuse to get away from Joly for a while.”

Combeferre turns around to look at Eponine incredulously. “What? Why?”

She shrugs. “Dunno. Probably something to do with them being disgustingly in love, or something.”

Combeferre snorts. “You picked up on that, huh?” Eponine gives him a condescending look. “Fair enough. And I’m getting what out of this experience, exactly?”

“Ideally a boyfriend, but I’d also count a blowjob as a definite success.”

“Eponine!” Combeferre hisses, glancing at the area around their booth and glaring at her. “We are in a _school_.”

“ _Please_ , like any of these snot nosed sugar junkies know what a blowjob is, and even if they did there’s no one around to hear.” She’s not wrong- most of the little kids have congregated at the cake walk, the jump rope competition, or the face painting booth; since the sticky child ran off, the closest small children to them are wholly preoccupied playing some game involving a lot of rocks in the grass in front of them.

Eponine smirks at him, lazily twisting the paper cone between her fingers, and Combeferre sighs. “Courfeyrac doesn’t- this isn’t going to work.”

She groans and throws the cone at him, watching as it hits the bridge of his glasses and falls lamely to the ground. “ _Híjole_ , the two of you are worse than Joly and Bossuet. Trust me, this is just the kind of wake up call Courfeyrac needs.” She tilts her head, considering. “And if not you can always just, I dunno, ask him out? Seems to be the socially acceptable thing to do.”

Combeferre pales. He’s thought about it before, about laying it all out, telling Courfeyrac everything but- he couldn’t do that to him. He knows how uncomfortable Courfeyrac feels when he has to reject someone, how many people have accused him of leading them on before, and even beyond than that, the idea of potentially ruining their friendship because of some inconvenient romantic feelings- “I couldn’t.”

“Why the hell not?” Eponine groans, her tone more exasperated than accusatory. She grabs another paper cone and points it at him sternly. “You’re allowed to want things, ‘ferre. And more importantly, you’re allowed to _go after what you want_. And so what if he doesn’t feel the way you do? At least you’ll know, and then you can move on. Shit, Courfeyrac’s not the only person you’ll ever be able to fall in love with. He just happens to be the one you’re into right now.” She blinks at him, then rolls her eyes with a teasing smile. “Though fuck if I know _why_.”

Combeferre laughs, more of a breathy exhale than anything substantial, shaking his head slowly. Pep talks aren’t exactly Eponine’s strong suit. “I feel like that sounded more reassuring in your head.”

Eponine grins at him. “What d’you need reassuring for, anyway? Courf’s totally into you. Though, again, fuck if I know why.” She bumps him with her hip, laughing as he nearly knocks over some of the cotton candy sugar. “He just needs a little push.” She pulls herself up to her full height and steps closer to Combeferre.

Combeferre blinks at her. “What are you doing?”

“Just trust me, alright?” Eponine grins, stepping closer. “Okay, do that thing you do with Courf’s hair.”

“What thing?”

“Where you tuck a strand of it behind his ear and smile at him like he hung the moon.” Eponine says, snapping her fingers impatiently. “C’mon, we don’t got all day.”

It’s a testament to their friendship that he complies without a need for further explanation, taking a breath and imagining Courfeyrac standing in front of him with that strand of hair that always gets in his eyes, the little unruly stray curl that rests on his top lashes, the way his nose scrunches at the feeling, his lips pulling up in a half smile that widens when Combeferre tucks the strand behind his ear-

“Perfect.” Eponine smiles, then leans up to whisper in his ear, “Okay, give it a second…. _aand_ look at Courf.”

Eponine stays where she is, quiet breaths tickling Combeferre’s ear, as he turns slightly to look across the courtyard, where Courfeyrac is staring at the two of them, lips parted in shock and something unrecognizable in his expression. And- Combeferre doesn’t like the idea of trying to make Courfeyrac jealous, or in any way unhappy, but - and maybe he’s just been scheming with Eponine for too long but-

“Fine.” Combeferre says, ignoring the triumphant look on Eponine’s face. “I- we just- _fine_. But I resent your attempts to turn my life in to a romantic comedy.”

Eponine pats him softly on the cheek. “No you don’t.”

\---

Jerking up and out of the water, Cosette gasps into the air, shoving her hair away from her face instinctively, and shudders at the biting cold of the fountain water as it soaks into her dress, then looks around semi-frantically as she hears, “Oh my _god_ , I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I just- here let me help you,” and then some splashing. 

She wipes at her eyes as she looks towards the source of the noise, which, seeing as it’s a darkish blur of grey-blue color, tells Cosette that not only has she scratched her foot and been pushed into a fountain, but she’s lost her glasses. 

This is not exactly her ideal way of starting a day.

She reaches out towards the blurry noisy man splashing in front of her (must have jumped into the fountain to help her, that’s kind -and a little silly- of him), and a surprisingly warm hand grabs hers and begins to pull her up, a hesitant hand ghosting over her shoulder. 

“I am so, _so_ sorry miss I wasn’t-“ He makes an abrupt, choked off, vaguely strangled noise. “Oh my god, it’s you!”

Cosette blinks, trying to wipe the water away from her eyes without tragically smearing her makeup. “It’s me?”

“Um- no, I just-” He makes a noise in the back of his throat, low and flustered and strangely endearing. “Pense que si- si te encontré nunca imaginé que- pero, you know what, nevermind, I’m so sorry, shit, I- I mean- are- are you alright?”

Cosette blinks in confusion, because she’s pretty sure she’s heard three languages from him in, like, a minute. She shakes herself; _focus, Cosette, more pressing matters_. “Um, fine, a little cold, but-” She looks helplessly down at the water tumbling lazily around her ankles. Or at least, where she knows the water is, even if it’s more of a grayish blob. Cosette groans. “I think I lost my glasses.”

He gives a little confused hrm-ing noise. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“Well I usually- wait, sorry, do I know you? I can’t really see, but-“

“Oh, no no no-“ He stammers, sounding uncomfortable. “I just, um, I didn’t see any glasses? On your face? Not that I saw you for very long before the- anyway, that was a really bad way to phrase that- lemme just help you look!” The blurry figure drops down, presumably trying to get closer to the bottom of the fountain basin.

Cosette waits. She can hear him shuffling through the water, and tries to not look as useless as she feels, waiting for a stranger to find her glasses because she’s nearly blind without them and _of all days not to wear her contacts_ -

Next to Cosette, one of the fountain jets whirs to life, and a thick spray of water begins whipping at the side of her face. Cosette lets out a strangled, frankly embarrassing, half shriek and takes an involuntary step back. She feels something crunch underneath her heel.

Oh no. “Oh, _no_.”

The blur is suddenly larger and much closer, sounding concerned. “What is it? Is everything okay?”

Cosette lets out a long sigh, lifting her foot and stepping to the side, before nodding towards where she was standing. “I think I found my glasses.”

The blur shifts down for a minute, before coming back into view. “Okay, don’t freak out, but they’re-“

“Broken?" 

“A bit.”

“How many pieces?”

“Um, well the frames are only bent, a little. One tiny break. _So_ tiny. And the lenses look like they popped out but- well, they might not be broken! They’re probably at the bottom somewhere, lemme check-”

“Oh god no!” Cosette cries, reaching blindly out to stop him. “They’re my spare pair, and finding glass in water sounds impossible, I can just get my good pair from home later, please, you’ve done more than enough.”

“Are… are you sure? I mean, it’s not a problem, really.”

“Nonono, it’s really fine, we really should get out of here before we catch pneumonia.” Cosette sighs and shuffles towards the rim of the fountain, sitting uncertainly on it and squinting around until she sees something lumpy and light brown on the sidewalk behind her, and groping half-blindly for what she believes to be her book bag. She pulls it to her chest with satisfaction and wrenches out the scarf she packed, just in case (she also has a pair of foldable flats, a first aid kit, a makeup bag, snacks, and bus fare). As she uses the scarf to dry off her hands and face, she sighs. “Well, at least my phone is dry.”

“Oh, you- hrm.” Blurry man says simultaneously, clearing his throat against the sound of water whirling behind them. “You don’t have a coat with you, by any chance?”

Cosette looks up to the blur apologetically. “No, oh, I’m sorry, you must be cold- I’m so sorry, here I had you looking for my glasses you must be soaking-”

“No, ohnono-.” He rushes to say, before pausing. “I didn’t want it for _me,_ I don’t mind at all I’m more than happy to- all of this is my fault, and anyway, I’d do anyth- hrm. I mean, I just- the coat would be. For you.” Another throat clearing. “Your dress, it’s-“ He makes an awkward sort of humming noise. Cosette finds him strangely endearing, even if he can’t seem to stick to one sentence at a time. “It’s kinda… see-through. With the. Um. Water, and everything. It’s- yes. Translucent.”

“Oh.” Right. Cosette does a mental check of her underwear- mostly nude colors and lace, nothing that should be _too_ embarrassing if seen through cream-colored fabric. “Well, I think wet hair in winter is probably worse for me in the long run than a… translucent dress? But I’ll just change when I go home to pick up my spare glasses.” She shrugs, giving up on squinting at the flustered blur and turning to dig through her bag for a hair clip or tie; the last thing she needs is a frizzy, tangled mop of half-frozen hair to try to tame later.

The blur moves in closer. “Would you like me to walk you home? I just- I feel so bad about all of this, it’s the least I can do.”

Cosette is shaking her head before he’s even finished speaking; not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture, but everything’s blurry and trusting any stranger, even a cute-sounding flustered one, to get her back to her dorm safely sounds like a _terrible_ idea. “My dad lives in town, he’ll have a pair of glasses for me, I’ll just call him and he’ll drive me back. But thanks for offering.” She chirps, her brightest smile on her face, because it _is_ really very kind of him to offer.

“Well- I just- is there anything I can do, I feel _terrible…_ oh! Wait right here!” He scampers off somewhere, shoes scuffling against the pavement, and Cosette exhales, wringing out her hair and considering her options. She’s already been to class, she only has a lecture left, it’s well within her rights to ditch it to go home and take a nice bath and curl up with some tea and a book, right? Right. She nods to herself and pulls out her phone, holding it up to her face to see the keypad.

_[to: Papa] Heyyy do you think you could maybe pick me up and drive me home? I broke my glasses :/_

_[to: Papa] I know ur at work and I’m sorry but we both know I am essentially blind w/o them_

_[to: Papa] I’m sending you a pin to the coffeshop I’m at_  

_[to: Papa] <3_

“Here!”

Cosette looks up at the blur’s words that sound strangely triumphant, and sees a slightly darker blur sort of suspended in the air. “What?” 

“Take it, it’s the least I can do.”

“I…“ This would be so much easier if she could see. “Sorry, what am I looking at?”

“Oh!” He chuckles softly. “Right, you… can’t see things. It’s my coat. I forgot, it was with my bookbag, where I was sitting before- well, um, you should wear it, while you wait for your dad, I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

Cosette frowns, thinking of how he jumped into the fountain for her- she can’t just take his coat and leave _him_ standing wet in the cold. “No, I couldn’t-”

“Please,” He gets closer. “I feel horrible, I’m just trying to make up for it.”

His voice sounds so _sad_. Cosette sighs. “ _Fine_ , I’ll wear the coat.” Oh, that was a bit rude. “I mean, you don’t have to give it to me but if you insist, it would be nice to have.” She reaches out to the dark blur he’s holding in front of her, and he holds the coat further out, and the combination of motions ends with her hand resting on top of his wrist for just a second too long before she pulls it away quickly. “Sorry, I-“ She clears her throat and looks down, thankful that her skin doesn’t blush easily. She inhales. “Um, would you mind…?” She ducks and gathers her hair above her head, hoping he understands.

He does. 

“Oh, of course.” He makes another hrm-ing noise, before wrapping the thick fabric of his coat around her.

It’s much too big for Cosette, she can feel it hanging off her shoulders, but she barely notices as he pulls the collar close around her, hands just barely brushing her collarbone, her jaw. As close as he is, she can make out some of the features of his face, the way his hair flops just above his eye. The way his teeth pull at his bottom lip, a little flash of white mixed in with pink.

“Um, you’ve got…” His hand rises slowly to her cheek, fingers slowly gently brushing a few stray hairs away from her face as his thumb traces her cheekbone. “Eyelash.”

He pulls away then, thankfully unaware of how Cosette’s having a bit of trouble breathing, because he’d probably apologize for that too, even if it’s not really his fault. Well, it sort of is. “Thank you.” Cosette says softly. 

He clears his throat again. “Sorry, it’s really big, it doesn’t even fit me, really, but, it, looks nice. On you.”

Cosette smiles. “What exactly is the point of a coat that doesn’t fit you?” She teases, bringing the coat closer around her- it smells faintly of cologne and spices, and laundry detergent- with gentle fingers. 

“Oh, it was my father’s.” He says in a low voice. “I never met him, he died before… before I got the chance to. I don’t know why I wear it, it looks terrible on me, my best friend has offered to find me one that fits, but…” He trails off, obviously uncomfortable.

Cosette opens her mouth to speak, before pursing her lips and lifting her hand to ghost over her chest, at the necklace that rests just under her dress. It’s small, and old, a silver crucifix on a chain she’s had to have fixed twice. She’s not overly religious and she’s always thought the crucifix a somewhat gruesome symbol of faith, but she wears it everyday and hardly ever takes it off, even if it doesn’t match any of her outfits.

The necklace belonged to her mother, and… it’s the only thing Cosette has left of her. 

It looks a bit silly, and always gets caught in her hair, and she’d be lost without it. 

Cosette smiles warmly, as her fingers find the cold silver of the chain. “Well, even if it doesn’t fit, I bet it looks great on you anyway.”

There’s a pause, before he laughs softly. “You can’t see me _or_ the coat, remember?”

“Yeah, but some things you just know.” She says, with her kindest smile.

Another pause, longer this time, before he speaks again. “Come un raggio di sole hai illuminato la mia vita _.”_ He sighs the last words, almost whispers them like a secret he can’t bring himself to keep. 

Cosette’s breath catches. Even if she didn’t understand a word, his accent and the rhythm of the words gets her heart beating that much faster. “Um,” She tucks some of her hair behind her ears, ducking her head. “I don’t, really speak… whatever language that was.”

“Italian.” He answers easily. “And I, um, just asked… uh… if you wanted to get some coffee? Or tea? Since we’re in front of this cafe, and it is cold outside, I just thought maybe I could buy you something to make up for the whole… fountain… thing, but if you’d rather not it’s really okay I mean not everyone likes those things I don’t want you to feel obligated, really, and it wouldn’t be like a ‘oh-I’ve bought-you-a-tepid-drink-this-comes-with-certain-social-obligations’, like, I’m not-“

“Tea sounds great.” Cosette doesn’t usually like to interrupt people, but she feels like that may have turned into something of a rant. She holds out her arm. “Lead the way?”

She hears a little shuffling before slightly cold fingers clasp her hand, and she’s being helped to her feet. Before he can stammer or shuffle away, Cosette nods determinedly. “You should probably hold on to me, so I don’t get lost or accidentally walk into something or. Something.” She says, one hand still holding his, the other grasping her bookbag nervously.

“Oh.” He makes a faint noise. “Yeah, sure, of- of course.”

They lock arms, which pulls him even closer, and he’s tall- a lot taller than she is, so the two of them, walking side-by-side silently, should be uncomfortable but it’s actually… really nice. 

And Cosette can’t seem to stop smiling.

\---

“-essentially sacrilege, I don’t know how you can even _eat_ that warmed up atrocity.” Bossuet grumbles as he refills a bowl of heart sprinkles.

“I don’t get it, I thought Feuilly was the hot one.”

“Don’t give me that- wait.” Bossuet blinks, glancing at Courfeyrac, who looks like a kid who’s just found out the Great Lie of Christmas; all wide, confused eyes and lips turned down in a pout. “I’m sorry, were we not still talking about tortillas?”

“What?” Courfeyrac frowns. “Oh, right, I‘ll get back to that, but- wasn’t Feuilly the hot one of the group?”

Bossuet sighs. He was rather enjoying arguing about whether or not it was a mortal sin to microwave a tortilla instead of warming it on the stove, it kept his mind off of things like the potential attractiveness of his closest friends, but apparently, as always, the universe has other plans. “Um, what about Enjolras?”

Pursing his lips, Courfeyrac considers it. “Well, he is like… unfairly pretty, but I always figured Feuilly was our hot, approachable, ’tall dark and handsome’, occasionally in a muscle shirt and covered in sweat and car grease, Marlon-Brando-in-Streetcar-type.”

Right. “Where are you going with this, exactly?”

Courfeyrac chews his bottom lip uncomfortably, looking like he’s measuring and considering his words carefully before finally blurting, “Is it just me or is everyone weirdly revolving around Combeferre lately? Like everyone’s either sleeping with him or fake dating him or having inside jokes about corpses with him and it’s just- is he the hot one now? Because someone really should have consulted me about this.”

Bossuet, personally, has always considered Joly the hot one, but he supposes that’s both irrelevant and half of the problem he’s currently trying to ignore, so he doesn’t mention that little detail. Instead, he just focuses on whatever’s going on with Courfeyrac, which makes a little more sense now that Combeferre has been added to the equation. “Um, is that… bad? I thought you thought Combeferre was-“ Gently, Bossuet. Gently. “I mean, you’re always talking about how attractive he is…?”

Courfeyrac groans, rolling his eyes. “Ugh, I know, I’m trying to work on that. It’s on my list of bad habits, actually.”

“Excuse me.” 

“Well, he is gorgeous and I think people should know when they’re looking attractive- your dimples are incredible, by the way, I don’t think I’ve mentioned lately-“ He actually complimented them about half an hour earlier when they were setting up the booth, but Bossuet doesn’t correct him. “But Combeferre’s kind of in a permanent state of attractive so I tell him a lot, and I can tell it makes him uncomfortable, so I’ve been trying to do it less.”

It is honestly baffling how Enjolras has managed to survive being best friends with Combeferre and Courfeyrac for as long as he has. The man deserves some kind of medal. Bossuet resolves to talk to Joly about making him a medal.“So- you think Combeferre’s hot, but you don’t want him to be the ‘hot one’.” 

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ it- it’s just weird. Decidedly weird. Weird and very much not the natural order of things.” 

Right. _Sure_. Bossuet inhales. “So, this wouldn’t have anything to do with Joly and Combeferre’s… arrangement, would it?”

Courfeyrac freezes. “You knew about that?”

“There’s not much I _don’t_ know about Joly.” Bossuet shrugs, reaching for an icing container. “Fun fact: he thought giraffes were imaginary until he was eleven.”

“…okay.” His hands start moving erratically in front of him, which is a pretty good indicator of an uncomfortable Courfeyrac. “Isn’t it weird, though? Like, Joly and Combeferre, having this- _secret,_ and just _\- you know,_ being all _-_ with their faces, and-” Courfeyrac stops, humming thoughtfully. “You know what? You know what we should do? _We_ should sleep together, to teach them a lesson.”

It’s nice that he knows Courfeyrac well enough to know that he isn’t actually propositioning him, because he really would have no idea how to deal with that. As it is, he just rolls his eyes. “What could that _possibly_ accomplish.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Just an idea. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“We could sleep together.” Bossuet says, and Courfeyrac gasps, raising a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Not that you’re- ugh, you know what I mean. Courf, if it bothers you so much, why don’t you just talk to Joly about it? He’d totally be cool with-“

“ _It doesn’t bother me!_ ” Courfeyrac says quickly, voice just a smudge higher than normal. “Nahh, I just- it is what it is, you know? I’m cool. Totally cool with their faces.”

Bossuet is familiar enough with the concept of denial to give Courfeyrac the courtesy of pretending that made sense. “Okay, suit yourself. But just so you know, most of their… interludes happened freshman year, when they met in that ASL class. Nothing’s happened between them since Elliot, for sure.”

“Oh.” Courfeyrac exhales, with an uncertain smile. “Cool.”

Bossuet gets why Courfeyrac’s upset, he does, but at the same time, why worry about Joly and Combeferre, obviously platonic science buddies, when you could worry about all the potential strangers that inhabit the city and the potential sparks that could fly with this new person who’s hot and smart and can actually successfully grow their hair and doesn’t need medical puns explained to them, this faceless stranger poses a much bigger threat than any-

“What about ‘ferre and Eponine?” Courfeyrac says, interrupting his internal worry spiral, and Bossuet tries to accurately portray his confusion with a raised eyebrow and a grimace. Courfeyrac twists his fingers nervously and gestures behind him, obviously trying to seem casual. “I mean, seems like there’s something going on there, right?”

Bossuet looks around Courfeyrac and across the grass to where Combeferre is sitting, one arm propped on the table and eyes clearly focused on Courfeyrac, and Eponine is using his preoccupation to pile dandelion stems on his head. “You’re kidding, right?”

“They’ve been all cuddly and hand-holdy, you saw them.”

“They’re _pretending to be engaged_.” Bossuet says incredulously, because. Really. _Really_. First Joly now _Eponine_? Courfeyrac wouldn’t know a real threat if it punched him in the face.

“Yeah, but- they’ve been super flirty all morning.” Courfeyrac frowns.

“Well, seeing as Ep’s lith-squared and Combeferre’s hella gay, I’m gonna go ahead and assume it’s harmless, but- shit, are they making out?”

Courfeyrac’s head whips around so fast it takes the rest of his body with him, fast enough that he almost loses his balance and falls over, and Bossuet is probably a bad person. Courfeyrac lets out a sort of strangled, defeated noise when he sees Combeferre and Eponine, casually throwing paper cones at each other and very much _not_ swapping spit.

“You’re the _worsst_.” Courfeyrac whines as Bossuet chuckles.

Behind him, Eponine gestures to Courfeyrac and Bossuet’s booth, and the two of them set down the stacks of cones and begin to make their way through the grass.

“I’m just teasing you, of _course_ there’s nothing going on between them.” Bossuet says after a moment, picking up a cake pop and twirling it between his fingers. “But if you don’t believe me, ask them yourself.”

“We’re out of cotton candy sugar.” Eponine says in lieu of greeting when the two of them reach the booth, as she immediately begins stealing handfuls of cake crumbs from their bowls, and Combeferre trails behind her with an awkward half-smile. In one motion, Eponine slings her backpack off her shoulders and onto the table, pushing up the sleeves of her blazer (which Bossuet is fairly sure he’s seen on Combeferre before). She opens the backpack and dumps a pile of three types of paper, glitter, and cut-out hearts on the table between the plates of cookie ingredients.

“What’s this?” Bossuet asks, using his cake pop to gesture to the stack of paper.

“My project.” Gavroche says from beside him and Bossuet jolts in surprise at the noise, turning to see Gavroche slouching casually in the chair he was _sure_ was unoccupied just seconds before. “We’re presenting in twenty minutes, and I’ve still got to put them on poster board.”

Combeferre makes his what’d-we-learn face (one Bossuet knows all too well), and next to him, Courfeyrac lights up. “A Valentine’s Day Glitter project? Yes _please_.”

“First, sort the pile.” Eponine says, suppressing a small yawn. “Only ‘family’ pictures, no one who isn’t either here right now or actually related to us. Then match them with their definition of love.”

“Oh, I can tell you what love is.” Courfeyrac gives a world-weary sigh. “Love is a adult male with multiple prestigious academic awards and a promising career ahead of him binge-listening to 2007 Avril Lavigne, as I’m sure Marius is still doing.”

They all share a mutual grimace, and Gavroche looks up from doodling aliens on the construction paper.

“Who’s Avril Lavigne?”

Courfeyrac gasps, loud and exaggerated, and it comes out sounding a little moose-like. In his defense, Bossuet also feels personally offended by Gavroche’s question. He’s just not as dramatic.

“Who’s Avril Lavigne? _Who’s Avril Lavigne_?” Courfeyrac gapes at the eleven year old, who instantly looks like he regrets asking. “A beacon of hope for all 13 year olds with a crush on the cool alternative boys, a woman who for all intents and purposes ceased to exist after 2010, I mean, _Complicated-_ how can you not- Combeferre, catch me, I feel faint.”

He slumps back into Combeferre, who holds him up with one arm and a bemused smile. 

“Also, she has a song, Sk8r Boi, which I learned an entire dance routine to.” Bossuet adds, because the time of his life in which he might have been ashamed of that passed a long time ago. “… I probably still know the choreography.”

Courfeyrac opens one eye. “Girlfriend was totally my anthem in ninth grade. I was in love with the quarterback, predictably enough.” He pauses, before smiling widely. ”Oh my god, and his name was Josh, how beautifully cliche is that?”

“Ooh, prom queen for me.” Bossuet smiles. “Jessica, second string cheerleader but first in my pubescent heart.”

“Kai, the head of my debate team.” Combeferre says, after a beat. Courfeyrac untangles himself from Combeferre’s arms at that, his smile fading slightly.

After a couple of seconds they all look to Eponine expectantly, watching as she grimaces before growling, “Fuck’s sake, you all know it was Marius. Back to work, miserable underlings.”

Bossuet rolls his eyes but complies, picking up a handful of photos and construction paper. “Marius is a babe Eponine, there’s no shame there.”

Courfeyrac snorts back a laugh, halfway to attempting to gluestick a paper heart to Combeferre’s cheek, and Combeferre doesn’t even bother pretending to resist as he smiles down at him. Bossuet considers changing his definition of love to just a picture of the way Combeferre looks at Courfeyrac. It’d probably suffice.

“Oh my god- are these your parents?” Courfeyrac blurts out suddenly, diving at the pile of cards to snatch a photograph before holding it up to his face, then Combeferre’s. “They look so happy!”

“Photoshop; ‘zelma’s taking a class.” Eponine explains. “I don’t think my parents have _ever_ been happy at the same time, let alone when posing for a picture.” Leaning over the table, she taps a nail on the picture. “She got the pictures off Facebook and Instagram; dad’s learning the charges for solicitation were dropped, and mom’s on E.”

“Charming.” Combeferre says dryly, taking the picture away from where Courfeyrac is pressing it to his nose. 

“Alright, so Grantaire joins Enjolras in the ‘look nothing like family’ pile,” Bossuet says, half to himself, as he piles the pictures next to a bowl of purple star sprinkles. “Anyone got their definitions?”

“Here’s R’s,” Courfeyrac calls offhandedly, holding the scrap of paper out.

“And Enjolras’.” Gavroche says, sliding it across the table. 

Bossuet grabs one in each hand, holding them up for inspection. “… okay, not for nothing, but these precious cabbages both described love as ‘hard work’.”

“Precious cabbages?” Eponine raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah because _that’s_ what’s important here.” Courfeyrac scoffs, before turning to Bossuet with eager eyes, making little grabby hands at him. “ _Dame, dame_.”

Bossuet holds the papers out to him, and Courfeyrac grabs them, eyes skimming over the text. “Enjolras says: ‘love doesn’t have to come easy to be valid, it can take hard work and compromise’, which isn’t projecting at _all_ , and Grantaire says, and I assume you quoted verbatim, ‘I don’t know, suffering? Painful agonizing failure- what’s this for? Oh, then write ‘hard work’, that sounds good’.” He looks up. “I shouldn’t find this adorable, should I?”

Combeferre chuckles. “It’s not exactly the adjective I’d use, but to each their own.”

“C’mon, ‘ferre.” Courfeyrac pouts. “If this isn’t some destiny-level shit, what is?”

\---

“- so there Papa is, holding this muddy, ten pound sheepdog, trying to explain that he’s going on a fifth grade field trip, not fleeing the country, while his parole officer is still being chased by this goose, and Mrs. Norman is trying to get Malachi out of the pig pen without going into the pig pen or waking up the pigs, and-“ Cosette cuts off, giggling, as her blurry friend clutches his stomach, doubled over in laughter. “-and basically Papa was asked very nicely to never volunteer to chaperone for another school event ever again.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” He wheezes, breath slowly evening as his laughter slows into chuckles. “Your dad sounds great.”

“He is,” Cosette smiles. “You should have seen him at my dance recitals growing up, with bouquets and a camcorder and everything but a giant foam finger and bullhorn.”

“Oh god, that reminds me.” He laughs, his shoulders brushing against hers, close enough that their knees knock together. “The year I changed my major, I got this award from the language department at the end of the semester, not _that_ big of a deal, but enough to be invited to a private event for award winners and a bunch of the faculty and investors, and- well, I didn’t have any family to invite, so it was just gonna be me. My friend Enjolras- and I wasn’t even sure he _liked_ me back then- he got an invitation because of his parents, and he snuck all of my friends into the ballroom where it was taking place, and when I go to get my award there they all are, in the front row, cheering _so_ obnoxiously.” His voice gets sort of soft, awed almost. “It’s probably my favorite memory from that year, even if three of them got kicked out later in the night.”

Cosette’s smile is appreciative, if a little bittersweet. She’s never had friends like that. “Alright, so, you got an award from the language department, you were speaking Italian earlier… how many languages do you speak, exactly?”

“Um, well.” He makes a little hrm-ing noise. It’s kind of adorable. “I’d say I’m pretty much fluent in English, French and German. I’ve got a pretty decent handle on Spanish and Kiowa at this point, and I recently took up Russian, Italian, and Mandarin… at the same time more or less? But I’m still learning. And some of my friends have been teaching me some Hebrew and Hindi phrases, so that’s.. like five and a half altogether. Oh! And a bit of ASL.”

Cosette lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “That’s- wow.” That’s really _cool_. “Can you teach me something?”

“Of course!” He says excitedly, and Cosette can hear (and sort of see) him turning to face her, and finds herself missing the feel of his leg and shoulder against hers. “Which language?”

“Um… surprise me?” She says with a smile.

He hrms again. “Right, okay, so in Italian, I could maybe say that you were… _incantevole_.”

“And that means…?”

He clears his throat. “Um, that you can’t see. Right now. Because of- your glasses.”

“Huh. I’m _incantevole_.” She smiles, even wider.

“…yeah, you really are.”

Not quite sure what that’s supposed to mean, Cosette considers the rest of the language possibilities. “I’ve never heard of Kiowa, is it like, one of those movie languages? Like Klingon, or Elvish?”

He chuckles softly. “I can totally see why you thought that, but no, actually, it’s a Native language, spoken by only a couple hundred people and mostly based in Oklahoma.” He says, very matter-of-fact. “My, uh, my grandma on my dad’s side belonged to the Kiowa tribe; I found a book of Kiowa stories with his stuff after he died, and I thought it might be good to connect with that part of me, or something.”

“Oh.” Cosette blinks, wishing she could see something more than a vague outline of his face. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of amazing?”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by a yelped, “Jesus fucking _Christ!”_ The blur jerks up suddenly, and he begins stammering, “Shit, I mean shoot? I didn’t, sorry, I didn’t mean to- that was- I kind of. Spilled my coffee. On myself.”

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

“So fine!” He blurts out. “Yep, fine, but I’m gonna- um go to the bathroom? Real quick? Just to dry my- um. Yes. Bathroom. Be right back?”

“O-okay?” Cosette says, before she hears scampering footsteps. She leans back in her chair, somehow not really minding the crisp February air even though she’s still pretty soaked. _It’s the coat_ , she thinks, _it’s warmer than it has any right to be_. She smiles and thinks of warm hands and a boy who only stammers over his words when they’re in English, of a laugh that’s a mix between braying, chuckling and wheezing, feels her face flush when she thinks of all the times their hands brushed, wondered if his heart beat quickened the way hers did. It’s been… a while since anyone had an effect on her like this. It’s kind of exciting.

“Cosette?” She looks up, hoping he doesn’t have, like, third degree burns or something. “Oh good, I hoped you’d be easy to find. Let’s get you home.”

Oh. 

Of course. She wonders why she didn’t recognize his voice immediately. “Papa?” She hears shuffling and knows he’s picking up her things. She gets to her feet uncertainly. “Um, do you think we could wait just a few minutes? Um, there’s someone I should… thank?”

“Sorry bunnyhead, I have Gabrielle watching the shop but she’s still new and- we really should hurry.”

“Right, of course.” She reaches out to him and he holds out his arm for her to grab. “No, that’s-“ She looks backward, for what she can’t really say, because everything’s pretty much one big grey-brown blur. “Thanks so much for picking me up.”

“Of course, It’s my job to take care of you, after all. Besides, you know we miss you around the house.” He says, squeezing her arm as they begin to walk. “…is your hair wet?”

“Yeah, I fell in a fountain, I’ll explain as we drive.”

\---

“I want to be a beautiful fairy princess, please.”

“Wait. You aren’t one already?”

Halfway onto the stool, the little girl pauses with wide eyes, before shaking her head quickly. Around her, a small group of equally small children look on with interest, a couple of their faces already decorated with animal markings and sparkles.

“Hmm.” Feuilly looks at her, leaning forward a little in his chair. “Well, you look like a beautiful fairy princess to me. Maybe we can just add some flowers and glitter, just so people can tell for sure. Sound good?”

She nods, even more vigorously than she had shaken her head, and Feuilly smiles, reaching for his face paint set. “Alright, which colors do you want?” He’s still not _entirely_ sure how he was roped into face painting at an elementary school Valentine’s Day fair on a morning he had designated for reviewing and organizing lecture notes, but it’s not like it’s the first time his carefully laid plans have been disrupted by his friends. 

Going into a state school with acceptable but not all-encompassing financial aid, Feuilly had a very distinct idea of what his four years would look like. His plan allowed for school and four jobs and maybe one or two friendly acquaintances, but then he found Les Amis and a cause (one that lacked specificity or funding and was haphazardly thrown together between cuddle piles and getting kicked out of movie theaters but something to fight for all the same) and something like a family and- 

Bahorel.

Bahorel with his barking laugh and his utter lack of an inside voice and bright eyes and a smile like he knew the best kind of secret. Bahorel, who could never understand but always _understood_ when Feuilly couldn’t explain why his most prized possession was an old, beat-up vinyl album, or why he reacted so strangely to certain noises, phrases.

Bahorel, who knew without having to ask that Feuilly didn’t have anyone to go home to over the Holidays, and roped him into family Thanksgivings and weird not-Christmases. Bahorel, who-

Is calling him right now.

“Wait just one second?” Feuilly asks the girl, who nods just as energetically as she had before. He pulls his phone - playing ‘She’s a Bad Mama Jama’, the ringtone Bahorel set for himself and refuses to explain or let Feuilly change - out from his backpack. “Hello?”

“ _Hey, where are you?”_

Feuilly balances the phone between his shoulder and his ear, reaching for a paintbrush to do a gold outline of flowers along the girl’s eye and cheekbone. “At Gavroche’s school, it’s a long story. Why, what’s up?”

“ _Um… what time will you be done, d’you think?_ ”

Feuilly clicks his tongue against his teeth, considering it. “Dunno, noon-oneish? Why?”

“ _Uh, nothing, just- I was gonna make some food, thought we could have lunch before you go to work, try one of my mom’s recipes you like, maybe, but-“_  

Feuilly sighs. There’s this thing that keeps happening, when Bahorel does something so kind or sweet and reminds Feuilly what a great friend he is, and how lucky he is to have someone like Bahorel in his life, and he feels himself falling even harder for him every time it happens. Which is pretty much daily. “Oh, yeah, it’s okay, I’ll probably just grab something quick before I head off, and I think there’s food at this fair anyway.”

_“Right. Cool. No worries! Have fun at Gavroche’s thing, I gotta go.”_

“Okay, talk to you later.” Feuilly says, tapping the end call button before sliding the phone into his pocket and leaning over to look at the little girl. “Sorry about that, you ready?" 

“Yep!” She chirps, kicking her legs excitedly. 

“The brush might tickle a little, but try to sit still, and lemme know if you need to sneeze, okay?" 

She nods again, and giggles as he begins to paint across her cheek. “Can I talk?” 

“Of course.”

She grins, and her eyebrows shift a little, but nothing Feuilly can’t handle. “Cool! I’m Gracie. What’s your name?”

“Fe- Felix.” 

“That’s a pretty name.”

One of the girls who’s standing by his paint set, watching with interest, taps his arm. “Do you have a girlfriend, Mr. Felix?”

He smiles obligingly, reaching for some of the blue paint. “No, I don’t.”

“What about a boyfriend?” Asks a little boy, face painted with a slightly smudged Spiderman mask, as he eats from a cup of ice cream without a spoon.

Feuilly hums thoughtfully, carefully outlining the petals. “Almost.”

Gracie tilts her head with a confused pout. “What does _that_ mean?"  

“Well, I like my best friend a lot, and I’d _like_ him to be my boyfriend, but he just needs to figure some things out first.”

“Wait- oh my- hold up, you and _Bahorel_?”   

Feuilly turns around slowly, to where Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Eponine stand behind him, expressions ranging from utter disbelief (Courfeyrac) to something that could only be described as unadulterated glee (Bossuet). 

_Great_.

Eponine grins. “Duh.”

“ _No way.”_ Courfeyrac continues, eyes wide. “ _Whaaaat.”_

“That’s- yay.” Bossuet adds, smiling somehow wider. “That’s _so yay._ ”

Feuilly exhales slowly. He’s a good person. He doesn’t deserve this. “Did you guys need something?”

“Yeah, we’re taking a break and came to abduct you.” Eponine says, sitting on the table next to his pile of brushes.

“It’s been suggested we stop giving kids sugar so close to lunchtime.” Bossuet adds. “Which is teacher for ‘we don’t want terrifying sugar gremlins when we eventually take them back to class and have to try to force them to actually learn some stuff’.”

Feuilly nods, then looks around. “Where’s Combeferre?”

“Showing eleven years olds that science is cool because you can use it to blow things up.” Eponine shakes her head. “It’s like he’s _almost_ a good role model…”

Feuilly smirks, turning back to the circle of little kids. “Alright, Gracie, you’re gonna be the last one for a little while, looks like I’m taking a break.”

The few kids gathered all groan in disappointment, and Feuilly feels a pang of cute-induced guilt. 

“‘scuse me?” Says a small voice from behind him, and Feuilly turns to see a little kid in a Captain America shirt staring up at Eponine.

Eponine grins easily, tilting her sunglasses down. “Yeah?”

 “Are you a boy or a girl?”

Eponine laughs, open and bright. “A girl.” She tilts her head, considering. “Mostly.”

“Of _course_ she’s not a boy, Riley.” Scoffs the kid sitting on the table next to Feuilly, knees bouncing impatiently. “She’s too pretty.”

“Boys can be pretty too, _Lauren_.” Riley huffs.

Courfeyrac beams at Riley, holding out a high-five. “Darn right they can.” Riley accepts the high-five with wide, awestruck eyes. 

Feuilly chuckles, sparing a second to wish Enjolras were there to witness that little interaction -and possibly educate some confused kids, since there are few things Enjolras loves more than a receptive audience - before turning back to Gracie.

He paints an arc of spirals and flowers around Gracie’s eye that loops down across her cheek in blue and gold, then dusts it and her shoulders with glitter so she shines in the light. She’s so excited with the finished product that she almost falls of the chair in her scramble to give him a grateful hug, which he returns, careful not to smudge the paint.

When all the kids have trickled out of the booth, Feuilly turns at last back to his friends, sprawled across collapsable chairs, faces smudged with traces of cake frosting and hair dusted with sprinkles and candy glitter.

“So, any plans for Valentine’s Day?” Bossuet says as soon as they make eye contact, eyebrows wiggling in a way only Bossuet’s do. Right. He had almost forgotten.

Feuilly sighs. “Do we have to do this right now?”

“I mean, not if you _really_ don’t want to.” Courfeyrac says, with a deceptively sincere smile. “But we’re good listeners, and sometimes you just need to talk to someone about these things.”

“And it can’t be fun to have this thing weighing on you all the time that you can’t talk to your best friend about.” Eponine shrugs. “That one person who you go to for everything, who suddenly just isn’t an option.”

Courfeyrac and Bossuet both make pained faces at that (though Courfeyrac’s is more of a flinch, and Bossuet’s is a full-blown grimace), as Eponine continues eating a sugar cookie, apparently unaware that she’s just casually pinpointed the worst thing in Feuilly’s life right now.

“I mean,” Feuilly huffs, fingers reaching up to scratch at the base of his neck uncomfortably. “I picked up an extra shift on the diner, I should be working most of the day. Seemed the best way to do things.”

“What do you mean?” Bossuet says, voice a strange mixture of hurt and concern.

Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “If I’m not working, I’m usually hanging out with Bahorel. And while that’s usually one of my favorite things to do, spending Valentine’s Day with him? Sounds a little masochistic to me.”

“Not really.” Courfeyrac says quietly. “I mean, you enjoy being with him, so you should take any opportunity you get, right?”

Bossuet frowns. “No I get it, it’s like spending this really romantic day with someone who doesn’t think of you romantically seems like torture, but if you don’t have a good reason to _not_ spend the day with him and avoid him anyway it’ll seem weird, right?” Feuilly nods. “And it’s like, you don’t understand why being his friend doesn’t feel like enough, and you feel like a terrible person for wanting something other than friendship but at the same time the idea of losing what you have is _horrifying_ and you can’t figure out what it is that will make you happier, but-“

“Oh Jesus Mary and _Joseph_.” Eponine groans, massaging the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “I will honestly never understand why you people make this so _complicated_.” 

“Because it’s complicated!” Bossuet says helplessly.

Feuilly can be, admittedly, somewhat oblivious when it comes to romantic inclinations. He was one of the last to realize Enjolras and Grantaire had feelings for each other, he didn’t notice what was going on between Eponine and Marius until after the fact, hell, in all likelihood he wasn’t even the first to notice his own feelings for Bahorel. One of his friends is having a rough time? Needs some space or someone to talk to? Feuilly can spot that from a mile away. Love stuff, not so much. And from the sound of it, he missed Bossuet’s feelings for Joly completely. 

“Isit? Think of it this way,” Eponine fixes them all with a stern look. "If this were a movie, all of you would just get over yourselves, admit that you're in love with each other, and sort your shit out instead of whining at me about not understanding your feelings.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "If this were a movie, we'd all be white and financially stable.” He tosses some glitter ineffectually in Eponine’s direction. “Give ‘em a break, Ep. It’s like, a universal truth that being in love with your best friend bites- no offense.” Bossuet shrugs obligingly. “I can’t even begin to imagine- I mean, falling for Enjolras? _Yikes_.” 

“Enj…“ Eponine opens and closes her mouth slowly, staring at Courfeyrac in disgust and astonishment, before she makes a soft, choked noise. “You’re all fucking hopeless, y’know that? _Hopeless._ ”

Courfeyrac’s face falls into a confused pout. “What do you mean? How am I hopeless?” He huffs, then his eye twitches and he flinches exaggeratedly. “Ow, what-“ He holds out his hand, palm turned upwards. “Was that a raindrop or am I about to be really disgusted with what just fell on my face.”

They all look up at the shifting grey of the sky. Feuilly feels a couple droplets of water splash off his arms. “No, it’s supposed to rain today, I think.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Bossuet says, to the low rumble of thunder. “Should clear up by this afternoon.”

 ---

 

_ February Fitness Goals: TELL FEUILLY YOU LIKE-LIKE HIM YOU GODDAMN COWARD _

_ I D E A S ? _

_~~ flash mob ~~ _

_~~ romantic movie on valentine’s day ~~ _

_~~ just tell him ~~ _

_~~ write it on a cake and jump out of the cake ~~ _

_~~ listen to his weird old man music voluntarily ~~ _

_~~ pay grantaire 50 bucks to do it for you, possibly with balloons ~~ _

_~~ fake death and have it written on the headstone and then hide behind a tree nearby to find out if he likes you back ~~ _

_~~ just tell him!!!! ~~ _

_~~ tell him while he’s sleeping on the couch and hope it enters his subconscious ~~ _

_ surprise him with a romantic picnic and make him food _

 

Bahorel sighs, setting his phone down next to his notebook as Feuilly distractedly mutters ‘ _talk to you later_ ’ and the line cuts out. 

He exhales. “I’m over-thinking this, aren’t I?”

Harley, happily asleep on the toast Bahorel had been eating, stretches one eye open to slowly focus on Bahorel before closing it again. 

“I mean, I don’t wanna mess this up. I _really_ don’t wanna mess this up.” He murmurs, tappinghis pen gently against the countertop.  

With a defeated sigh, he draws a thick line across the last idea. Back to square one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes. it has been a good long while since i've updated this and i'm really sorry about that, if you have any interest in finding out why i've been AWOL i'm dameferre on tumblr and there's an explanation in my about page
> 
> other than that i! have not abandoned this! i know a lot of people thought i did but i still have a lot of stuff planned for this fic even if i've majorly strayed from my posting schedule. my new goal is to get chapters up once every week or week and a half because, as you might have noticed, i'm writing chapters that are Pretty Long now and that takes some time, especially with real life stuff.
> 
> anyway we're moving things along plotwise now, people thinking about feelings and falling in love and whatnot, but i can't seem to stop writing les amis just being friends. [shrugs]
> 
> and there's a lot of not-english in this chapter? but you can probably pop it into google translate and it should be clear but if anyone wants i can post translations somewhere? idk. (oh, and not sure if it was clear but courfeyrac saying 'dame, dame' is spanish for 'gimme, gimme', not the title given to a woman equivalent to the rank of knight. just so we're clear.
> 
> anyway, i hope this chapter was to everyone's liking, sorry for the Extremely Unnecessarily Ridiculously Long Delay and if you want to yell at me for various reasons, you can find me as dameferre on tumblr
> 
> oh, and the soundtrack to this chapter : falling in love at a coffeeshop originally by landon pigg but there are some good covers out there too


	6. One Day Until Valentines Day (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! this fic hasn't been abandoned

Eponine’s never minded rain. She always liked how quiet it made her busy neighbourhood seem; walking down the street in rainstorms she would take her time, watching the people around her try to dodge it, to run from it- Eponine just watched it fall. 

Now, though, as it threatens to start to hail, thunder shattering the air around her and the cheap flats she bought on a whim doing absolutely nothing to keep her feet dry, she thinks she could do without it. 

Then, it stops.

Or at least above _her_ it does. She looks up, at the wide black umbrella being held above her head, then down to the person holding it. And recognises him.

“Nice weather we’re having.” He (Connor, her memory supplies) says with a smile, in lieu of a greeting as he settles to stand beside her. “Waiting for a bus?” 

“No, I always stand on this corner in the pouring rain.” Eponine says, glancing up at the umbrella. “Though you might know that already, since you’re probably stalking me.”

He smiles, a little boyishly. “I was just walking by, _actually_. No ulterior motives, no stalkerish intentions.” He tilts his head before teasing, “Although, on a completely unrelated note, the tree outside your bedroom window could do with a trim, some of the branches are dead. Safety hazard.”

Eponine huffs out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Funny.” She pulls her scarf tighter around her neck. “Well, thanks for the cover, I guess. If you have somewhere to be, though-“

“Nope, Comfy here.” Connor smiles, looking ahead into the street as cars lurch past. “Unless you’re worried your boyfriend is gonna mind?”

Eponine frowns, blinking up at him. “Sorry, what?”

“Well you know. Two people. Huddled together under one umbrella. The day before Valentine’s Day.” The boyish grin is back. “Kinda romantic.”

Oh. Right. She’s being flirted with. She exhales, wondering if there’s a way to get the message across gently, without losing the umbrella cover. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“What, romance?” Connor’s brow raises. “I’ve yet to meet a girl who isn’t.”

Suddenly doing things gently doesn’t seem quite as necessary. “Well, now you have. I’m lithromantic, you may have heard of it.”

Connor seems to take that into consideration for a moment, nodding slowly. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Simple version?” Eponine inhales, willing herself to be patient. Some things you just get tired of always having to fucking _explain_. “I don’t want any kind of romantic attachment or gestures in my life. Just doesn’t interest me.”

Connor looks almost sad for her, then gives her a smile that reminds her of dashing knights and fairytale princes. “Sounds like you just haven’t met the right person.”

“ _Wow_.” Eponine half-groans, and fixes him with the most patronising expression she can manage. “That’s in _no way_ how it works, but good try.”

“Okay, okay.” Connor surrenders. “Forget I brought it up.”

He falls silent, and Eponine exhales, feeling annoyed, trying to focus on the relief from a downpour rather than the nuisance who brought it. She lets the muffled sounds of a city in the rain drown everything out until she feels relaxed again. It’s much easier when Connor isn’t speaking.

“So, where’re you headed this fine February morning?” Connor asks with that same bright smile, and Eponine sighs. It was nice while it lasted. 

\---

  
Grantaire raps his knuckles on the door to Combeferre and Enjolras’ apartment, then shoots Combeferre a text announcing his arrival. Shaking some water out of his hair with a steady hand, he tries the door handle- but it’s locked. With a frown, he knocks harder, then listens at the door for any signs of life.

He glances at his phone, just to make sure he’s got the date and time right, and wonders if he should use his own key for the apartment or call Combeferre to check in, just to be polite. He’s opened his favourites and is about to ring Combeferre’s number when the door lurches open in front of him. 

Looking up from his phone he sees Enjolras, curls slightly flattened on one side of his face, something smudged on his chin, and with a dazed, hyper-aware but still only halfway conscious gleam in his eyes that Grantaire knows means he’s just woken up.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras steps toward Grantaire with wide, searching eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”  


\---  
 

“Oh _wow_.” Joly grins, his eyes lighting up, and nods his head towards the entrance of the cafe. He does it twice more before Bossuet follows his gaze, pulling his eyes away from the distraction that is the endearing way Joly bites back his laughs. The way he smiles when he knows he shouldn’t but can’t bring himself to contain the happiness bubbling over. Sometimes Bossuet thinks he could spend the rest of his life categorising Joly’s smiles.

He blinks away the thought and focuses on the people shuffling in front of the glass pastry counter. Standing in line and inspecting the scones is a girl wearing an oversized pink sweater and blue tights under a puffy green coat, maroon socks peeking out of the yellow rain boots that shuffle idly beneath her. “Oh good lord.” Bossuet exhales, looking back to Joly. “She’s breaking your rules.”

“They’re your rules.” 

“Yeah, and they’re for _you_ , because you’re the only person who’d wear that many bright colours at once.” Bossuet teases with a smile. When they were freshmen, Bossuet drunkenly wrote a list of rules on Joly after an hour of sitting next to his searing red and rich purple MC Hammer pants, marigold sweater, and lime green Chuck Taylor’s. The last straw had been when Joly pulled off the sweater to reveal a fluorescent pink t-shirt adorned with baby-blue rocketships. They still have pictures of the list, written in block letters in sharpie trailing down Joly’s arm, and the first rule, underlined twice, reads ‘ONE (1) STATEMENT COLOUR PER OUTFIT’. 

The two of them are sitting in one of their favourite coffee places, a halfway point between their respective classes, and blissfully unfrequented by any of their friends. It’s not that he doesn’t absolutely adore all of them, but he wouldn’t trade the moments he gets alone with Joly for anything, and as their friend group and their various responsibilities grow, they’ve been getting fewer and fewer opportunities to just be BossuetandJoly. 

Joly giggles as he takes a bite of his muffin- blueberry, his favourite- and a bit of crumb falls and sticks to his chin. Bossuet leans forward and flicks it away. “Is there anything you’re capable of eating without making a mess?” 

“Muffins are crumbly, leave me alone.” He says, still chewing a mouthful, and little muffin crumbs fall onto the plate in front of him. “But speaking of, did you see-“

“Tanner’s mess in the kitchen this morning?”

Joly nods, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “I think he’s trying those weird recipes his sister keeps sending him, _and_ he used my beaker measuring cup without asking. _Again_.”

Bossuet shakes his head, and Joly mirrors the movement disappointedly. Tanner is the third inhabitant of their apartment, who they’d had to find after Grantaire (completely understandably) dropped them to rent the spare room in Eponine’s place after her roommate got engaged. They don’t blame Grantaire, Eponine could barely pay her half of the rent, never mind all of it, and apparently some of the stuff in her past makes it… less than easy for Eponine to find apartments that’ll rent to her. Tanner is the subpar replacement who answered their add and promised he wouldn’t mess with the demanding schedules of a med and law student. And while he’s not a loud roommate, he sure as hell isn’t a clean one either. And he can be kind of a dick. Not much they can do about it, though.

The two of them having fallen into companionable silence, Bossuet lifts his head back up to look at Joly. He hasn’t told him about Musichetta yet, though he knows he will. He tells Joly everything, has never really been able to keep things to himself. Especially something as exciting as having met a girl who laughs like a tropical bird and makes Bossuet feel like time doesn’t exist around her. But at the same time, he’s been trying to get up the courage to tell Joly how he feels since… four months, twelve days, and somewhere around 11 hours ago. Give or take. So it’s… complicated.

As Bossuet checks his email on his phone and Joly finishes his muffin, Bossuet feels Joly’s foot brush against the hem of his jeans. Then slowly, it rubs against his calf, just the faintest amount of pressure as Joly distractedly hums to himself. Joly’s foot continues idly trailing up Bossuet’s leg, pushing the fabric slightly. 

Bossuet's mind goes blank instantly.

It's like someone's flipped his mental reset button, and every ounce of his being is focused on where Joly’s clunky rain boot is touching - and most likely getting mud on - his leg. It’s not like he and Joly don’t touch, they’re very proud of their reputation as cuddliest in the friend group- no matter how much Courfeyrac and Combeferre try to steal the crown -but this is just so- casually romantic. Boyfriend stuff. The kind of stuff he doesn’t have, not with Joly.

Joly looks down, under the table, and his foot stills. “Shit, sorry, thought you were a table."

“Mmhmm.” Bossuet says, aiming for a teasing tone. “Trying to play footsie with me, there?”

“Oh, for sure.” Joly laughs, and then their legs aren’t touching anymore. It sucks. “So, how was your yesterday?”

Bossuet shrugs, sipping from his mug as Joly swipes at his phone, some app with tiny cats from what he can see. “Pretty standard. Late to class, a woodland creature almost broke my laptop-“ 

“Haha, yeah, I saw your snapchats.”

“Right, other than that- oh, I met someone.” Bossuet says, his knee beginning to bounce in place nervously. “She gave me her number.” 

“Oh?” Joly doesn’t look up from his screen. “That sounds like it has potential.” 

Bossuet exhales. “Maybe. I dunno, she’s more of a… concept. At this point. It depends.”

“On what?”

_You, mostly_. “Oh, dunno. Guess I’ll see if we… spark. Or whatever.”

“Spark, or whatever.” Joly looks up at him with a soft, teasing grin. “And they say romance is dead.”

Bossuet chuckles, then begins slowly, “Hey, do you ever think about our lives as a movie? Like the roles we fit, or whatever.” 

Joly’s lips purse up slightly, his face considering. “Not really? But if I’m being honest, we’re definitely supporting character material. Grantaire’s the leading man, educated with romantic hang-ups, an explosive relationship, and a snarky sense of humour, and we combine to form the quirky,” He gestures to himself, “Vaguely jewish,” Then to Bossuet, “Best friend.”

Shrugging, Bossuet nods. “I can live with that." 

“ _And_ you’ve managed to shoehorn in a love interest in the final act!” Joly exclaims, face lighting up. “Man, if that isn’t a sign to move past the conceptual, I don’t know what is.”

Bossuet can’t help but smile in return, because Joly’s smiles are probably his favourite things in the world, but his heart constricts in his chest. He knows if the roles were reversed, and Joly had met some girl he was maybe interested in, Bossuet would already be writing his best man speech and planning an intimate wedding on the beach because it’s what Joly deserves. Even as utterly gone for Joly as he is, Bossuet would want his best friend in the world to be happy, first and foremost. So just because Joly’s encouraging Bossuet to pursue someone else, doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t interested. Or at least that’s what Bossuet tells himself.

**\---  
**

The rain isn’t quite as bad when Eponine disembarks from the bus and enters the familiar station at the edge of what is well established as the rough part of town, looking and smelling just as bad as she remembers. Though, as she buttons up her coat and slides on a pair of sunglasses, she supposes it hasn’t been all that long. She sits down in one of the shitty plastic chairs, taking a minute to breathe. The long bus ride was a nice break from everything, helping fizzle out her irritation about Connor, who was nice enough, fairly attractive if she thought about it, but just couldn’t take a fucking hint. Her phone pings with notifications; Jehan has posted something on the group chat, Gavroche is staying for debate club after school, and Feuilly found an article he thought Eponine would be interested in. Everything’s normal.

Everything’s totally normal.  

Eponine’s just. Home.

No, that’s not right. She’s not home, she’s… back. Back in the grimy, seedy area that breeds people like her, back where she’s vulnerable and if things don’t go according to plan-

She hears someone whistle, soft and low, and looks up.  

He’s holding a long, black umbrella, and his black coat flares behind him as he walks toward her. “Well, well, well.” His eyes are just as dangerously amused as she remembers, his voice just as deceptively smooth as he pauses, mere feet in front of her. “Eponine Thénardier, back in the flesh. I don’t believe it.”

“Montparnasse.” She exhales, getting to her feet. The space between them lessens- she can smell his cologne. “You look like shit.” 

His eyes narrow, staring at her for a beat, before he exhales, sounding bored. “Oh, get over here.”

Eponine grins as he pulls her into a gentle, hesitant hug, and for a moment she thinks he doesn’t want to wrinkle his clothes, before she realises the Eponine he’s used to isn’t really a hugger. Now, however, she’s had time to adapt to a horde of overly affectionate college students and has been missing her childhood best friend, so Eponine wraps her arms tight around him and hopes he just goes with it. Montparnasse, big softie that he is, responds immediately, sighing into the hug and resting his chin on her head, and they stay there for a moment as Eponine feels some of the tension rush out of her.

“Oh, damn, it is _good_ to see you,” He mutters as they pull apart. “Let me look at what you’ve done to your hair.” Montparnasse steps back, grabbing her hand as he goes like he doesn’t want to let go of her just yet, and looks down at her, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Well, I like it, but I feel I should’ve been consulted.”

Eponine laughs, and stops to take a look at Montparnasse. It’s been almost a year since she’s seen him in person, and she forgot how much taller than her he is, for one thing. He’s kept that annoyingly perfect posture he’s had since they were eight years old, taking ballet classes in the community centre just to have something to do after school. Growing up, they always argued over who was prettier, and Eponine now happily concedes the title to him, with his tan- _burnt sienna_ , the part of her that lives with an artist supplies- skin, full lips, and sharp cheekbones. His hair is soft and ruffled, a likely victim of the humidity, and his clothes are all a punishing black but his shirt, a dark, cool purple that accents his skin. Three silver necklaces hang effortlessly at different levels down his torso, one of which she recognises. Everything else looks expensive, and probably stolen. Oh, she did miss him.

“So.” He says, breaking the silence. “Waffles?” 

“Ugh, yes please.” Eponine says, as he links her arm in his and they make their way out of the bus station.

\--- 

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Um.” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, trying for a smile that doesn’t seem mildly terrified. It’s a little difficult, with Enjolras looking at him like he’s worried someone’s just died. “Nothing? We all good. _Should_ something be wrong?”  

Enjolras stares at him for a second, confusion clear in his eyes, before he groans and brings his hand to the bridge of his nose, rubbing at it tiredly. “Fuck, sorry.” He steps aside and nods into the living room, a silent invitation. As Grantaire walks in Enjolras shuts the door behind him before explaining sheepishly, “It’s been a long week, you sort of woke me up in the middle of a dream, and I just- forgot what year it was?” 

It takes Grantaire a second before it clicks. “ _Oh_.” He chuckles, pulling off his coat. “Yeah, I guess once upon a time me showing up on your doorstep was a pretty good indication of things having fallen completely to shit.”

Enjolras laughs through a yawn, stepping past him into the kitchen. “Understatement.”

Grantaire exhales. Sometime after Grantaire got sober, though he has no fucking idea how it happened, he and Enjolras became friends. Actual, real friends who know dark shit about each other and talk through arguments like reasonable adults and welcome each other into their apartments freely and discuss ‘that time we tried to date’ like it’s no big deal. Even when they were in a committed, monogamous relationship Grantaire was never entirely sure Enjolras _actually_ liked him, and now he has a key to his apartment. It’s- well, more than he ever could ever have asked for, really, and part of the reason he’s decided to try dating new, non-Enjolras people. The faster he convinces his useless brain or heart or whatever to stop wanting something from Enjolras that isn’t friendship, the better.  

Grantaire hangs his coat on one of the hooks he helped install and follows Enjolras to the couch, watching him flop down amongst the mismatched throw pillows with a thump, his head falling against the back of the couch, honey-gold curls splaying softly around him and his burnt sienna skin glowing in the faint beams of sunlight coming through the window. His long, dark eyelashes flutter slightly as he exhales, a half-moan of contentment slipping from his lips. He’s wearing a shirt that could honestly belong to any of their friends, but most likely Combeferre, and it’s stretched out at the torso, sliding off Enjolras’ left shoulder and revealing one sculpted collarbone, sparse freckles accenting the warm brown skin. 

When you’re trying your best to get over your hopeless infatuation with someone _leagues_ out of your league, it’s really rude of them to insist on being overwhelmingly attractive at _all times_.  

Enjolras’ full lips fall open in a lazy yawn, but Grantaire’s been training for months not to stare at times like these, and pulls his eyes away. “Am I okay to talk?” He teases.

“Hm?” Enjolras doesn’t lift his head from the back of the couch. 

“You told me once that sometimes it takes a while after waking up for you to be able to deal with white people.” He had, in fact, been waking up next to Enjolras at the time. 

Enjolras chuckles, rolling his head forward to look at Grantaire with lazy, hooded eyes. “Still true.” He cocks his head. “But it’s been a decent morning; I submitted a paper three minutes before a deadline yesterday, I’m feeling benevolent. Feel free to be as white as you want.”

“Oh thank god,” Grantaire exhales, flopping onto the couch beside him. “Then let’s talk about golf and how Star Wars is trying too hard to be PC-“ 

Enjolras hits him in the face with a pillow. 

Grantaire laughs and pulls the pillow into his chest as Enjolras grumbles, “You _know_ the term PC is banned from this apartment.”

“Strictly a Mac household, then?” 

Enjolras groans. “That was _terrible_.” But his lips turn up in a smile, as much as he tries to suppress it. Grantaire feels a little lighter, just seeing it. “So, why are you here?” He mumbles bluntly, his head still leaned against the back of the couch, and pauses. “I ask, nicely, and curious rather than irritated.”

“Aw, you’re learning.” Grantaire smiles; Enjolras is frank by nature, not really one to dance around what he means. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have spent years gently reminding him that most people find his particular brand of directness off-putting, and he’s working on developing a filter, but all that tends to go out the window if it’s earlier than eleven in the morning. “And Combeferre, Jehan and I were gonna watch a documentary? I’m like, forty-five minutes late.” 

“Oh.” Enjolras hums his comprehension. “They’re not here.”

“I did notice that, actually.”

He can’t tell for sure, with his head tipped back and facing the cieling, but Grantaire is willing to bet that earns him an eye roll from Enjolras. He continues slowly, “Combeferre texted me a bit before ten, said he was going out, but would be back soon. That’s all I know.”

Grantaire frowns. “Well, maybe I should text him to make sure we’re still….” He trails off, as an unmistakable smell enters the air. “Is something burning?” 

Enjolras jolts up, panic in his eyes, and almost trips over the coffeetable as he rushes into the kitchen. Grantaire hears a muffled stream of curses coming from his general direction.

After a moment, Grantaire stands and walks into the kitchen, where he finds Enjolras, fanning a half-ash pizza with a look that he used to reserve for moments when Grantaire was being particularly disappointing: that perfect mixture of exasperation, annoyance, and total lack of surprise.

“I know, I know.” Enjolras says, when Grantaire leans against the wall and gives him an expectant look. “I fell asleep while heating up a pizza. It happens much too frequently and I’m gonna burn down my apartment.”

Contrary to expectation, Enjolras is actually a really good cook when he tries. He’s got a few family recipes under his belt and seems to enjoy making food when the occasion calls for it or he has some spare time. He will, however, nine times out of ten get distracted reading the news or planning some demonstration and accidentally let whatever amazing-smelling thing he’s cooking burn to a crisp. So no, Grantaire isn’t exactly surprised. 

“I’m more disappointed you’re eating reheated pizza for breakfast.”

Enjolras frowns, reaching down to turn off the oven. “Just for that, you can’t have any.”

“Of your charcoal brick that doesn’t even have pineapple on it? Oh Enjolras, you are so cruel to me.”

Enjolras huffs out a laugh as he pulls out a knife and attempts to salvage the edible sections of his breakfast. Grantaire pulls out a plate from the cupboard and sets it down next to him, and Enjolras slides almost half the pizza onto it, apparently deeming it fit for human consumption. Grantaire leans back against the kitchen counter, and tries to ignore the wrenching in his chest. When it was good, it felt like this. They’d wake up next to each other and lightheartedly bicker as they made breakfast and Enjolras would perch on the counter and leave Grantaire in charge of making sure nothing burned, distracting him with little touches and playful kisses and it was _so good_. Of course, it all went to shit in the end, but it's hard to deny that they did- and  _do_ \- occasionally work really well together.

Enjolras pulls his hair up and ties it back -he has a habit of getting food in his hair, or accidentally catching a curl in his mouth when he eats- and his shirt rides up, just enough for a glimpse of an Adonis belt, warm brown and defined, and Grantaire fixes his eyes on the pile of papers and letters on the table, just to have something else to look at. Immediately, his eye is drawn to something that looks incredibly personal.

“Letter from a secret admirer?” Grantaire asks, nodding toward the embossed envelope on the counter, Enjolras’ name written in dark red calligraphic script on the front and no return address. He’s pretty sure he sounds casual saying it, or at least puts in a good effort to.

Enjolras snorts back a laugh as he sets down his plate next to Grantaire and hoists himself onto the counter, nodding at the pizza in a silent invitation. “Not even close. This envelope?” He holds it up, and the lettering shines under the kitchen light. “Came inside another, fancier envelope.” He pulls a face, and for a moment Grantaire wonders if he’s expected to understand the contents of a letter based entirely off of fanciness and amount of redundant stationary before Enjolras explains, “I’ve been cordially invited to my father’s birthday charity event. Everyone who’s anyone will be there, pretending they give a shit about whatever foundation my parents have decided to throw some money at this year. Exciting stuff.” 

“Ah.” Grantaire’s fingers fumble around a chunk of pizza. “Well, um, I’d ask if you needed a plus one, but I think we both know how well that turned out last time.”

Enjolras frowns at him, obviously not understanding what he’s referring to, before his eyes widen in recognition. “Oh, god, it _was_ his birthday gala, wasn’t it?” 

Grantaire almost instantly regrets bringing it up. This isn’t exactly a memory he’s eager to relive. “As long as by ‘it’ you mean that time I went on a week-long bender and you went with Combeferre instead-“

“And you showed up halfway through, in Bahorel’s suit, drunk or high or a mixture of both and we had to smuggle you out through the kitchen before anyone saw?” Enjolras finishes, looking oddly amused, like this is a fond memory for him. If Grantaire remembers correctly, at the time Enjolras looked like he was counting down the seconds ‘till he’d be able to flay Grantaire alive without any witnesses. 

Grantaire loves being able to be friends with Enjolras, he really does. It beats shouting matches and cruel remarks any day of the week and twice on Sundays, but it seems like Enjolras might be taking this friendship thing a little far. It took Grantaire _months_ to be able to even talk about his train wreck of a relationship with Enjolras, and more than a year to get to the comfortable, animosity-free point they’re at now. He’s pretty fucking sure that point doesn’t mean ‘okay to drop some of the worst moments of their relationship casually into conversation like they’re discussing the fucking weather’. That has to be at _least_ another year away. 

“Um, yeah.” Grantaire tries his best to think of something to say that doesn’t give off his trademark vibe of self-deprecation and fundamental inability to understand why Enjolras wasted so much time on him. “Still don’t know why you bothered with sneaking me out, though, thought people seeing what a disaster I was was kinda the point.” Well, he tried. 

Enjolras frowns again, little wrinkles splitting the space above his immaculate, severe eyebrows. “The point…?” Enjolras, it seems, has had enough experience dealing with Grantaire’s vague bullshit to get there in the end. “Wait, you think I invited you to prove a _point_?”

“Not necessarily.” Grantaire shrugs, helping himself to another slice of pizza. He regrets bringing any of this shit up. “Maybe just spite your parents.”

“You-“ Enjolras huffs. Oh, Grantaire recognises that huff. He’s heard it for years, always right when Enjolras is about to explain something to Grantaire that he thinks should be blatantly obvious. Most of their arguments started with one of those huffs. Instead of the full-blown lecture Grantaire is prepared for, however, Enjolras just smiles and shakes his head. “Grantaire, no offence, but if I wanted to piss off my exceptionally religious, upper class Republican parents and being a trans atheist with anarchist leanings who routinely called them from jail and turned down an offer from _Harvard_ didn’t do the trick, I wouldn’t exactly see dating a middle-class white artist with a substance abuse problem as the next extreme.” He says, simply, as he picks at the burnt bits of his pizza. “It would’ve been such a stereotypical, eighties movie kind of rebellion, I think they probably would’ve been relieved.”

Grantaire gapes at him as his brain tries to process that little nugget of information. “Wait, so- why invite me at all?” 

Enjolras shrugs, looking down. “I’m always bored out of my mind at my parents’ events, I thought you might make them actually enjoyable.” He clears his throat. “Just, you know, your near-constant stream of mocking commentary would’ve been entertaining. Or whatever.”

Grantaire stares at the crusts of charred pizza, unblinking, as Enjolras fidgets and reaches to check his phone. The stupid fucking gala. He was so sure that Enjolras had invited him as a joke, then as some childish ‘fuck you’ to his parents, eventually convincing himself that if all he was to Enjolras was a way to prove a point, he might as well do it right, and got absolutely fucking _trashed_. He doesn’t even remember what he had that night, just the way Enjolras and Combeferre looked at him before shoving him where he couldn’t embarrass them anymore. Even now, after all they’ve been through and the progress they’ve made, it’s hard for Grantaire to stomach the idea that Enjolras thought Grantaire's presence would _improve_ the evening. Even if they _were_ dating at the time, Grantaire wasn’t any less of the antagonistic, drunken asshole with issues as long as his arm that he’d been before they’d gotten together.

“Anyway,” Enjolras says, after the silence starts to get uncomfortable, pulling Grantaire from his thoughts. “My parents and I might not see eye to eye on everything, but I stopped doing things just to piss them off when I was seventeen. It just made everyone involved miserable, and just wasn’t worth it, especially because they’re not _bad_ people, you know?”

Grantaire blinks at him. He hasn’t put a lot of thought into Enjolras’ parents, but he had always sort of assumed they were the distant, disapproving sort. “And they’re cool with… everything?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I’m their only child. They might not always understand my choices, but they eventually learned to ask for an explanation, and listen, and try. I’m never going to one hundred percent agree with them, but with the big things: who I am, what I want to be, what I believe _?_ They don’t have a problem with those.” He grins, fondly. “And I’ve learned to accept the _audacious_ amount of money they spend hosting galas. Reluctantly.”

“Wow, I.” Grantaire huffs. “How is it I didn’t know any of this?” 

Enjolras shrugs. “I guess they don’t come up a lot. Especially not when there’s so many other fun topics for us to argue about,” He teases, and smiles when Grantaire rolls his eyes. 

“Did you tell them about me?” Grantaire asks, before he can stop himself. Enjolras visibly tenses in front of him, probably because anything he said about Grantaire can’t exactly have been flattering. Grantaire tries to backpedal and save the casual, teasing tone. “I mean, just in a ‘mom, I met the most insufferable asshole today, will you be my alibi when I inevitably murder him?’ way, obviously. ”

Enjolras laughs, but it seems… off, somehow. Grantaire wants to kick himself. “Yeah,” He says quietly. “You probably came up at some point.”

\---

“I knew it. Bossuet jinxed us. He _always does this_.”

Courfeyrac chuckles, peeking out beyond the awning he and Combeferre are huddled under, watching the pouring rain smack agitatedly against the concrete. “You don’t have to walk me all the way to class, you know. Totally capable of running through this downpour by myself.”

Combeferre huffs, taking his glasses off and sliding them into his pocket. He blinks, squinting slightly, and Courfeyrac watches the way his dark eyelashes flutter with the movement. Combeferre’s always had amazing eyelashes, but they’re harder to notice behind his glasses. “My bus station is on the other side of campus, so I don’t really have a choice.” 

“I knew it, you’re just pretending to be a good friend.” Courfeyrac teases, shaking his head and looking out into the rain. He can practically _feel_ the humidity frizzing his curls. “God, and my hair was behaving so well today.” He inhales. “You ready to run?”

“No.” Combeferre answers, with something Courfeyrac is tempted to call a pout. 

Courfeyrac exhales fondly and grabs Combeferre’s hand, pulling him out and into the rain.

\---

“Here we go,” Cosette says, setting down the two blueberry scones and mug of hot chocolate she’s balancing. “Again, thanks so much for agreeing to reschedule, you wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had…” 

Cosette had been in the bath, hair tied up and sinking into bubbles, when her phone had pinged, reminding her that she had half an hour to be across town, conducting an interview for her column in the university’s unofficial, though incredibly popular, student-run news and lifestyle publication. In her first week, she’d been approached by the editor of the style section, and over the months what began as something to fill out her extracurriculars became something she’s actually kind of good at. When she’s not almost two hours late to meeting up with the people she’s profiling, that is.

Across the table, Jehan smiles. “No worries, fountain-related incidents take precedence, of course.” They’ve got a notebook spread out in front of them, showing scrawling words accented by interconnected spirals and curving lines. Their voice is lower than she expected, even after listening to their radio show. There’s something so pleasant in their tone, rich and deep, it almost reminds Cosette of her Papa’s, but more musical and earthy, somehow. Jehan’s dreadlocks are accented by what looks like three different colourful scarves, and their sweater is a dark green that brings out the rich, dark tone of their skin.  

Which reminds her. “Sorry, I’m kind of a mess, I just threw on the first things I could find before running out the door-“ As she entered the cafe, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors; she clashes _horribly_. The bold green of her Papa’s raincoat combined with the sweater from her pink phase is bad enough, she just hopes no one sees the _yellow rain boots_ as she shuffles her feet, trying to hide them under her chair. Cosette shrugs out of the coat self-consciously. 

“Oh, did you not plan the outfit?” Jehan says, voice amused. “I like it, always a fan of multiple statement items at once. Screw convention.” 

Cosette smiles gratefully, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket and setting it down on the table. They’re sitting in the top level of the cafe, mostly empty despite how busy it is in the main level, which is the first thing that’s gone right for Cosette thus far. It’s easier to conduct an interview when you can actually _hear_ the other person, after all. “Oh, well then it was definitely on purpose; I always dress like this.”

They chuckle, low and melodic. “It’s nice to finally talk in person.” 

Cosette feels herself beam back at them; then wills herself to at least _try_ to be casual about this. What makes Cosette good at what she does, she’s decided, is that she’s distinctly pleasant as a person. People always seem comfortable around her, and something in the way she talks makes them feel they can open up to her, which is encouraging when she considers the career path she hopes to follow. But, if her first few semesters at university have taught her anything, it’s that most people find her particular brand of pleasantness… boring. Or they tend not to take her seriously because of it. Like, they see the way she looks and dresses, and hear her talk, and assume that’s all she has to offer. Or maybe she’s just not putting enough effort into trying to make friends. 

Either way, Jehan was the first person she met who actually seemed interested in what she had to say. After she reached out to the campus radio station asking to do a style piece on their unconventional rising star, Jehan had texted her, and they’d started a week long correspondence on the ethics of clothing production, racism in mainstream fashion, and proper succulent care. They had said they were looking forward to meeting her, and she’s hoping to live up to expectations, but mostly just excited to have maybe found a friend.

\---

Not many people know this, but there was a time when Courfeyrac was a little in love with Combeferre. More than a little. It was subtle at first; Courfeyrac remembers noticing that no one made him smile quite like Combeferre did, and it was a slippery slope to full-on infatuation from there. The issue was, it was the end of freshman year, they had just been introduced that January, and Courfeyrac was celebrating his newfound status as a single man. A perfect storm of bad timing, basically, and by the time sophomore year rolled around, the feelings had mostly faded. That, and Combeferre had come back from summer break with _Elliot_ clinging to him like a tall, obnoxious barnacle, so Courfeyrac decided it was better for their friendship not to pursue anything, and with a little bit of effort, got over it. 

Courfeyrac looks up at Combeferre as he pulls him out of the rain and under the arches between the law and humanities buildings, and realises he’s not as over it as he thought.

Combeferre’s hand is warm in his as he smiles down at Courfeyrac, his smile bright and his chest heaving slightly from the run, strands of his hair plastered to his skin with water, slow trails of rain drops sliding down his neck. In the space of a second, it’s like Courfeyrac’s entire world simplifies and all that matters is the way Combeferre’s fingers feel against his. The attraction between them pulling Courfeyrac dangerously close to a collision course. It’s staggering, how much willpower it takes not to lean up and press their mouths together. Courfeyrac isn’t even sure he _wants_ to resist the urge.

Combeferre looks down at him, breathless, and it’s definitely wishful thinking, but in that moment he _swears_ Combeferre leans in.

Before, of course, the sound of a throat clearing comes from behind Courfeyrac, and Combeferre’s eyes flick to the source of it, widening instantly. 

“Combeferre.” Says a voice from behind them, a voice Courfeyrac recognises, and Combeferre takes a step back, pulling Courfeyrac’s arm just slightly as he goes. “Well I can’t say this is a surprise.”

Courfeyrac turns his head and there, looking every bit the smug asshole Courfeyrac knows him to be, is Elliot. Combeferre’s grip on Courfeyrac’s hand loosens instinctively, but Courfeyrac chases after his fingers, holding tight. He needs Combeferre to know he’s there for him. As far as he knows, this is the first time he’s talked to Elliot since he dropped off some of Elliot’s stuff that had been left in the apartment, weeks after they broke up. And right when Courfeyrac thought- well, he might have- his timing really is _fucking_ impeccable.

“Neither can I.” Combeferre says, slowly. “We were bound to run into each other eventually, this campus isn’t that big.”

Elliot fixes Combeferre with an unimpressed stare. “Not _really_ what I was referring to.” He looks pointedly at their intertwined hands. “Nothing to be jealous of, huh? Completely irrational paranoia.”

Courfeyrac feels like he’s missing something, but Combeferre seems to understand, and rolls his eyes. “You always did have a way of twisting things so you could feel like a victim. And you still don’t know anything about the kind of person I am.” He sighs. “I’m gonna be late for work.” Looking down to Courfeyrac, his eyes soften. “Text me if you’re coming over later, okay?”

Courfeyrac squeezes his hand with an understanding smile, and Combeferre nods once at Elliot before pulling his coat over his head and stepping back out into the rain, leaving Courfeyrac and Elliot standing underneath the arches, both watching him go, before Elliot turns back to Courfeyrac. If Courfeyrac didn’t know better, he’d swear Elliot looks…upset. But he’s not sure Elliot has any human emotions programmed into his hard-drive, so.

Elliot sighs, pulling the scarf tighter around his neck. “Can I just ask- I know he dumped me for you, just tell me you at least waited until I was out of the picture.”

“Out of the…” It clicks. “Oh god, wait, hold on,” Unless Courfeyrac is really misinterpreting things, Combeferre’s ex-boyfriend is under the impression he’s having an _incredibly_ awkward conversation with Combeferre’s _current boyfriend_. Oh, the humanity. “You think Combeferre and I-?”

“All those nights he spent at your apartment, when he swore nothing was going on between the two of you, I thought I was just being paranoid.” He shrugs. “It’d be nice to know for sure.”

Oh. Oh, that’s _much_ worse. Courfeyrac shakes his head quickly. “No, Combeferre would never- it was never like that, between us.”

“Right.” Elliot exhales a forced-sounding laugh, shaking his head. “Well, I should go, I’m late for a lecture.” 

Courfeyrac takes a step forward, beginning to understand why Elliot was always so hostile towards him. Hiding his feelings isn’t exactly Courfeyrac’s forte, but he tried to keep the ones he has- _had_ \- for Combeferre under control. If Elliot picked up on them, however, and assumed they were reciprocated… Courfeyrac hates the idea of _anyone_ thinking they’d been betrayed by someone they cared about, and isn’t exactly comfortable with someone out there thinking so poorly of Combeferre. “Elliot, I’m _so_ sorry if I made you think-“

“It’s fine.” Elliot waves him off, turning his back to Courfeyrac and as he walks away Courfeyrac hears him mutter, barely audibly, “I wouldn’t have told me the truth, either.”

**** \---

“So, I have here a review of your radio show from the campus’ free newspaper, calling you ‘a force of nature with a voice like an out of tune cello, who’s outgrown gender and convention, to be found hosting the university’s most popular student-run radio show, freestyle-rapping in slam poetry showcases, and running with one of the more infamous student activist groups’.”

"Infamous?” Jehan grins. “Oh, Enjolras is gonna love that. He’s our driving force, one of the most brilliantly focused and caring people I know. Terrible sense of style though, so I wouldn’t recommend him for a profile.”

“Damn.” Cosette frowns slightly. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve been assigned to so far; an infamous activist sounds so much more interesting than another preachy hipster who’s prepared a diatribe against the ‘mustard renaissance’.”

“Oh, I love mustard, though.”

“So do I!” Cosette smiles, gesturing with her stirring stick. “What’s not to love about a rich yellow that looks nice with every skin tone?”

Jehan shakes their head with a small frown. “All colours deserve equal love, but yellow especially gets such a bad rap.” 

Cosette nods, the conversation treading a nice line between silly and genuine that feels so… comfortable. She smiles and takes another drink from her hot chocolate. 

“Not sure if you’re interested in being infamous, and I don’t want to sleazy salesperson this, but with some of the conversations we’ve had about ethics and your interest in social work, I was gonna bring it up anyway and since you _mentioned_ it…” Jehan says, with a gently sly grin. “I think you’d fit in perfectly with our activism group; it’s really casual, choose your own level of commitment kind of thing, we meet on Wednesday evenings, it’d be great if you wanted to come along some time.”

It takes Cosette a minute to understand what feels familiar, before she realises she’s heard about this group before. From Feuilly. “Oh, um, I dunno-“ She says quietly, picking at the rim of her cup. “I have… a class. It runs late, usually…” The recycled excuse feels sour on her tongue, even more so the second time. There is no class, just a desire not to intrude on something she feels she’s being invited to as a courtesy, and a reluctance to march alone into an already established group that, as much as their purpose may be activism, seems a little… cliquey.

“Oh shoot, what time?” Jehan asks.

“Six to Nine, usually. It’s a workshop.” She says, looking down. Feuilly had said they met at seven, so she doesn’t need to look at Jehan’s face to know the meetings won’t fit into her ‘schedule’.

They frown. “We meet at seven… that’s too bad, I thought you’d be a really good fit.” Jehan says, the melody of their voice replaced with disappointment. “Well, if you want I could keep you updated if we’re doing any demonstrations or signature campaigns, or even if you just wanted to meet up with Enjolras sometime I could talk to him, I think you’d really like him.”

“Oh, yeah, maybe.” Cosette says, drinking from her mug. “I’m kinda busy with the blog right now, but-“

Jehan seems to understand. “I get it. Sorry, didn’t mean to give such a hard sell.” Their smile doesn’t seem forced, just slightly apologetic, and Cosette is grateful.

“No, no, it sounds really great. And a little like you may have been the ones responsible for those private emails from the Dean that showed what exactly was motivating the school’s policy regarding sexual assault that _somehow_ were released online and taped up all over campus in the same day.” She says, smirking a little.

Jehan doesn’t really react, other than raising one thick eyebrow. “A, just to reiterate, you’d fit in _so well_ with us, and B, I obviously deny _any_ involvement in what happened and have no idea who would perpetrate such an invasion of the Dean’s personal files, but theoretically, I suppose a motivated individual could obtain a _lot_ of information by dating the Dean’s son if that individual happened to be sort of short and curly haired and charming and could, hypothetically, enlighten that son about what his father was turning a blind eye to. Hypothetically.”

\---

Enjolras’ phone makes an obnoxious chiming noise, and they both look at it expectantly. “Still not Combeferre.”

Grantaire exhales. “I’m starting to think I’ve been stood up.” The two of them are sitting in the living room, two cups of mint hot chocolate (Enjolras’ favourite) on the coffee table between them. The sound of raindrops smacking against the window fills the air. Enjolras has pulled a sweater on, a faded grey favourite of Courfeyrac’s, and irrationally, Grantaire misses when Enjolras only stole _his_ clothing. At the time, it irritated him to no end, mostly because a person only has so many sweaters and Enjolras always forgets to actually _return_ the clothing he ‘borrows’. Which meant Combeferre would occasionally stop by Grantaire’s place with a sackful of Grantaire’s clothes, freshly washed and folded and smelling like Combeferre’s fabric softener, because Combeferre is one of the good people of the world, but still, it meant Grantaire’s clothes always ended up smelling like Combeferre. Not _really_ what Grantaire was going for when he let Enjolras borrow them.  

Enjolras chuckles, typing out a response to the text. “And Combeferre is the one who lectures _me_ about forgetting commitments. He probably just got caught in the storm.”

“Or maybe Courfeyrac finally got a clue and they’re… _otherwise occupied_.” Grantaire punctuates the phrase with some suggestive wiggling to get the point across, and it earns him a disgusted face from Enjolras, as he hoped it would.

Enjolras half-retches. It’s cute. “Please, those are my best friends you’re talking about, I really don’t want to think about… _that._ ”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, feeling awkward. “Guess not everyone’s rooting for them to get together, then.”

“I was referring to the fact that I never want to think about them having sex, ever as long as I live. And I…” Enjolras bites at his lip, and Grantaire wills himself not to get distracted. “I think it’s an inevitability, the two of them. I just don’t want it to ruin their friendship. Not that I assume it will, just. Being realistic.”

Grantaire nods; he has the same attitude towards Joly and Bossuet. Being the child of one divorce is more than enough, thanks. He lifts his mug of hot chocolate to his lips. “If it helps, my money’s on you giving a heartfelt best man speech at their wedding and being a reckless bad example of a godfather to their children.”

Enjolras smiles, and there’s something in his eyes Grantaire identifies, but doesn’t recognise, exactly. It’s a mix of the look he gets when he’s talking about the Weekly Reason The World’s Falling to Shit as if all it takes to fix society’s problems is a can-do attitude and an unwillingness to acknowledge common sense, and the way he looks when one of his friends is doing anything pride-inducing. It’s optimism and tenderness and… love. There’s a lot of love in Enjolras’ eyes as he takes a sip from his mug, and it spears Grantaire right in the fucking chest, and not just because the look has nothing at all to do with him. 

It’s because once, just once, a very long time ago, there was something in Enjolras’ eyes that resembled that look, directed at Grantaire. And Grantaire, at the time, had no fucking clue what that meant.

He still doesn’t, really. He just has slightly more context to classify what he saw.

“I better be, I was the one who introduced them after all.” Enjolras mutters, tapping his nails against the ceramic with an idle smile. “Maybe they’ll name the kid after me.”

“Or maybe they’ll name it something actually fucking approaching a normal name. Like Todd. Or Jeff.” Jeff Combeferre. Todd Courfeyrac. Grantaire would piss himself laughing. 

“My name is perfectly normal, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply.” Grinning, Enjolras exhales, slowly. “They’ll be good for each other, I hope. Balance each other out. Opposites attract, or so I’ve heard.”

“So what’d we do wrong?” Grantaire’s mouth asks, before his brain has a chance to stop it. Multiple books could be filled about what Grantaire did wrong in his relationship with Enjolras. One day he’ll release the three-part self help documentary: _What Not To Do When Dating Someone Who’s Too Good For You_.

Enjolras doesn’t notice the way Grantaire winces at his own question apparently, and shrugs. “Too opposite?” He grins, “Or maybe it was like a meteor, attracted to the surface of a planet but ultimately disastrous for the meteor _and_ the planet. Antimatter, pulled towards the container that holds it, and resulting in a catastrophic explosion.”

Grantaire hums, considering his words. “Your entire concept of scientific fact is composed of dinosaur trivia and Ewan McGregor movies, isn’t it?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny.” 

Grantaire laughs, then decides it’s probably best to steer the conversation away from their- as Enjolras defines it- cataclysmic, apocalyptic disaster of a relationship, back to speculating on a relationship that good money says will be utterly perfect in comparison, founded on trust and communication and rainbows. “Even if Courf and ‘ferre don’t last, at least we don’t have to deal with Talia anymore. Or Marcus.” Courfeyrac has a habit of dating people doing performance degrees, and they’re always so _loud_. And, you know, Grantaire’s friends with Bahorel, so that’s saying something.

Enjolras huffs out a laugh of acknowledgement. “Or _Elliot_.”

“Blergh.” Of all the group’s exes, none is more hated than Elliot. Of course, they all pretend it’s that guy who robbed Bahorel’s apartment, because Combeferre wasted a lot of time in love with the overblown asshole, and they respect that by mentioning his name as infrequently as possible. “I’ll remember the Double Date From Hell until the day they put me in the fucking _ground,_ christ, he was the _worst.”_  

“Oh, please don’t remind me.” Enjolras groans. “I never thought of our relationship as well-adjusted until I watched Combeferre ignore one half of what Elliot was spewing, and apologise for the other.”

Grantaire never thought of their relationship as well-adjusted, full stop. He barely thought of it as a relationship when it was happening, constantly waiting for Enjolras to reveal he had been conducting some sort of social experiment or had lost a bet or something that made more sense than Enjolras actually _wanting_ to be with him. He glances at Enjolras, watching as he blows softly at the steam curling up from his mug, eyelashes fluttering as he inhales deeply, his full lips turning up in a satisfied smile. 

“Speaking of dates,” Enjolras says, raising the mug to his lips. “You have one tomorrow?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire: [KILL BILL SIRENS]
> 
>  
> 
> soundtrack to this chapter: if you ever want to be in love by james bay
> 
> supplementary soundtrack to this chapter: five hours of me screaming
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So. Um.
> 
> It's. Been over a year since I updated this fic, and I honestly have no excuses, other than holy fuck I had not realised it had been an _entire year holy fuck_. like, the last time i updated this i was still living in the US. what on earth. That's such a long time??? If anyone is actually still interested in reading this fic (which, i'm not really sure Anyone will be, but hopefully at least someone somewhere is excited about a new chapter? maybe??) thank you, I love you, and I'm so sorry
> 
> quick update, I'm lowkey living in the UK right now, been travelling a lot and doing my best impression of a functioning adult and that's made writing and whatnot difficult, sorry about that
> 
> anyway sorry this chapter is long as hell and i hope everyone reading this, if anyone is, is having a wonderful day and has had a wonderful year.
> 
> feel free to yell at me, dameferre on tumblr, my inbox is always open


End file.
